Grant Denyer has challenged us to name Ten Things You’d Find On A Beach Holiday.
‘Sand,’ Dad says.
‘Sea.’
‘Fish.’ Dad spits out the answers. ‘Crabs.’
I look at him. ‘That’s two.’
‘Shut up. I got ‘em right. Have another go.’
I sigh. ‘I dunno… Flies?’
Flies is wrong.
‘Dickhead.’ Dad nudges me, eyes focused on the screen. ‘Never been to the beach – how would you know?’
The television shouts back at him. I lift my stubby by its glass neck, stare out the living room window. Night has come. The living room is lit by the hanging bulb in the ceiling, and Dad strains forward on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, his hands hanging down.
The studio audience laughs at something.
‘Move those plates,’ Dad says in the lull.
I inhale. Here we go again. ‘Easier if you do it.’
‘I’m watching me show.’ Dad snatches his tobacco pouch off the coffee table.
I ignore him, take another pull from my bottle.
‘Harris, move your arse and move those plates.’
I look at him. I’d say You can’t be serious, but he can be and he is. He’s deadly serious. I found out the hard way yesterday.
I clench my jaw. Get one crutch under me so I can haul myself up off the spongy couch. Put the crutch in my left armpit, steady myself, lean for the dirty plates.
‘Get outta the way,’ Dad says. ‘I can’t see the telly.’
‘This is the only way I can do it,’ I say through my teeth.
The lurch to the kitchen takes forever. I clatter the plates into the sink, rest my arse on the edge of the kitchen table. My leg aches.
‘Get me pills!’ Dad calls.
I close my eyes. I think I might be stuck in a re-run. Not Family Feud. Some sort of gothic horror-comedy. I can’t believe I’m back here. I can’t believe I said yes.
This is crazy. I’m no help to Dad like this anyway. These last four days, I’ve crutched around the house doing a poor impersonation of helping to keep the place running. Dad expects the house to be warm at night, he expects water to be in the taps, the toilet to flush, dinner to appear on the table. How he expects all these things to magically happen, I have no fucking idea.
It’s the same technique he used with my mother. His expectation is a fixed unchanging weight and an explosive fury follows when his expectations aren’t met. I’m so over it I can’t think straight. This is why I left, this is why I swore I’d never come back. Dad doesn’t want a son, he just wants a compliant servant –
‘Don’t forget me pills!’ Dad bawls from the living room. He’s finished with beer, started on vodka about an hour ago.
I grab the packet of medicine off the kitchen bench and stagger back through to the living room, chuck the packet on the coffee table.
‘Here’s your bloody pills. I’m going to bed.’ It’s six-thirty in the evening.
‘Good on ya,’ Dad says.
I lean for my other crutch, get it under me, limp off down the hall.
Inside my room, I close the door and rest on it to catch my breath. Easier to breathe on the bed, though. I hobble over, put my crutches aside and lie back. The bed is too narrow, too short. It’s the same one I’ve had since I was twelve.
What’s my mum doing now? I’m trying to keep my mind on the prize. I imagine Mum making dinner for herself and my sister. Something nutritious and colourful, not the shrivelled sausages and mashed potato and blanched carrots she always served up under Dad’s orders. Maybe she’s making salad, or pancakes. Maybe she’s coming home from work, and she’s tired, and my sister helps her, and they make dinner together…
I try to imagine Kelly, but I can’t picture her any way except the way she looked when she and Mum left: all pudgy fists and soft two-year-old hair. Which is dumb, because she’ll be thirteen now. I wonder if her hair went dark or if it stayed blonde, like mine. Like Mum’s. I wonder if she even remembers who I am.
It’s the same question I ask myself about my mother, sometimes. Does she remember me? Does she think about me, like I think about her? Did she know what it would mean when she left me behind?
Of course she knew. But she didn’t have a choice. On bad days, I have to remind myself of that.
I push my heels against the baseboard, tuck my arms up under my head. My muscles feel tight. When Dad went in to Five Mile today, I searched the house again for clues. Dad hasn’t told me anything useful yet. He could be lying about knowing where Mum is. She’s been impossible to track online. She might’ve remarried, or just flown under the radar to avoid him. Shit, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s taken out a no-contact order against my dad, or even changed her name.
But I have a feeling Dad knows exactly where my mother is. He’s probably planning to drip-feed me the info until he goes in for chemo, and then – when he’s practically in the hospital foyer – he’ll finally tell me the truth. I think Dad’s gonna lean hard on that leverage. He knows there’s no fucking way I’d be staying here without it.
Because here feels dangerous. I have to be on my guard all the time.
Before now, there’s always been an out. I’ve been able to rely on being a taller, heavier opponent. If things got serious, I could always walk away. Go to a mate’s place or squat somewhere until things blew over. I used to crash at Mike’s sometimes. I even slept at the quarry once. I think Mark West, my old boss there, understood more than he let on.
But now that’s not the case. I can’t walk distances on my crutches. I can’t drive away in the ute because it’s a manual and I can’t handle the clutch with my bung leg. Most importantly, I can’t hold my own with Dad physically, and he knows it.
I push myself up, stumble to the door, shove the back of the only chair in the room – an old wooden one – under the door handle. Then I take out the tiny foil of pot from the cavity under my old footy trophy and roll up. Lie back on the bed again, stare at the ceiling, and smoke the joint as the August dark settles around and inside the house. The pressed tin patterns high above me are smeared with dust.
When I was a kid, I realised something: nobody wants to hear your bullshit sob story. Everyone’s got their own lives, their own troubles. Folks like to know the gossip, but they don’t like to be asked to do anything about it.
So usually I keep my own counsel. But this whole situation would be easier if I could hash it out with somebody. I could call Rachel – I think about that for three long seconds, discount it. I’m past that, past the ‘What Would Rachel Do?’ stage. I could call Mike, but it’s kind of the same thing – and he’s not here, he’s there, where I can’t be. Melbourne is a long way from Five Mile. Right now, I think you could measure the distance in light years.
My thigh is tender, throbbing and annoyingly itchy by turns. I think again about Amie Blunt at the hospital, the way I ignored her on the day I left. It was a bastard act, but she made me feel exposed. I can handle people’s scorn but not their pity. My hackles were up that day, though. Maybe I read it all wrong.
I study the tin on the ceiling. You’d need a lot of pressure to stamp those designs into the metal. Maybe I’m being tempered here. Maybe this is character-building. Maybe, when I meet my mum and my sister again, I’ll be a stronger, more decent person…
I slow my breathing, and try not to wonder whether the price I’m paying for the info about my mum and my sister is too high.
*
‘The pub,’ I say.
‘What?’
‘I wanna go to the pub.’ I rub a hand across my mouth, slouch in my chair at the kitchen table.
I’m itchy with old sweat, and my stubble has grown into a full-blown beard, but shaving is awkward and I can’t take a shower. The shower is outside, under the same tin roof as the toilet and laundry tubs. Navigating the stairs is a pain in the arse. Plus I’m not supposed to get the bandage wet. I tried wrapping my leg in plastic, but it didn’t work. I even tried standing under the spray with my foot up on a chair. Couldn’t keep my balance. I ended up crawling over the concrete for my crutches, buck naked and sopping. Got so fucking angry, I slammed my crutch through the wood-veneer door.
It just reminded me of all the times I’d spent there, shivering in the dark while Dad raged through the house, knowing I couldn’t hide forever –
I feel like a kid again. Helpless. Hopeless. Is it the injury, or is it being in this house, being near Dad? Fuck, I don’t know. All I know for sure is, I stink, and if I have to sit on that moth-eaten couch watching TV for one more meaningless night, I’m gonna fucking explode.
‘C’mon, Dad.’ I make my voice encouraging. ‘Let’s go to the pub. Stuff baked beans on toast – we could get a counter meal. Have a beer. Three beers.’
‘Got beer.’ Dad sits across from me at the kitchen table while we’re waiting for the baked beans to heat. ‘In the fridge.’
And vodka. And Tang. Just the memory of the smell makes me wanna heave.
‘I want a UDL,’ I say, traitorous. ‘Bourbon and coke. Play a game of pool or something. Haven’t you had enough of the telly?’
‘Play pool on crutches, can ya?’ He’s giving me the look I recognise. The fucking-with-you look.
I glare back, try not to sound desperate. This won’t work if I sound desperate. ‘People’ll think you’ve disappeared. They’ll think we’ve gone stir-crazy and offed each other.’ If I don’t get outta here soon, that could still happen.
‘On tap might be nice,’ Dad says contemplatively.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Foam on top. Roast beef and gravy. Mushy peas. Might run into a few mates, have a gasbag.’
Dad’s eyes narrow. Running into mates wouldn’t be part of the plan. He likes us independent. As in: isolated, exiled.
Undefended.
‘Actually, it’s Monday, isn’t it?’ I backtrack quickly. ‘So it’ll probably be dead quiet. Col will be pleased to see us. Bit of business on a Monday night.’ I sugar-coat it further. ‘He might let us order on tick. I can pay him next weekend, he knows I’m good for it.’
I’m not good for it. I’m not good for anything. I’m a fucking good-for-nothing, but I don’t care at this point. I’ll lie my arse off to Colin Geraldson – local publican and owner-manager of the Five Flags – if it means I get one measly night outta this hole. Col might even believe me when I say I’ll pay up later; he knows he won’t get more than a sniff off Dad. I might look like the better of two shit options.
‘You’re good for it, are you?’ Dad glowers at me over the rim of his glass. ‘Good for two pub meals and a booze-up. You weren’t much good for groceries last Wednesday.’
‘Next weekend – didn’t I just say next weekend?’ I take a neat swallow out of my own glass. Electrolyte powder mixed with water: it’s pretty disgusting, but I told Barb at the hospital I’d stay hydrated. ‘Mark West still owes me some cash from my last pay. Haven’t managed to catch up with him about it yet.’
Lie, lie, lie. Terry Watts gave me enough to cover the hospital excess, and the wound-care supplies and antibiotics for the week just gone. I got a few fifties left, then no idea where my next dollar’s coming from. Sure as hell not from Mark West. He’s a good bloke and he’s spotted me enough already.
But Dad doesn’t need to know that.
I stand up awkwardly, grab my crutches. ‘C’mon, then. We going or what?’
Dad makes me stand there while he knocks back the dregs in his glass. Tongues his front teeth. Makes a big sigh, like this is some kind of major life decision.
Then he stands up and snatches his keys. ‘All right.’
My suppressed whoop of triumph gurgles in my throat. This is not a victory. My father is driving me to the pub. Negotiating it with him, bringing him around to it, has made me break out in a sweat. Life isn’t supposed to be this much hard work, is it?
But the clean air outside the house is almost enough consolation. The breeze lifting the hair off the back of my neck smells of mallee bark with a touch of iron from the old corrugated sheets rusting by the front stairs. I don’t stand and enjoy it – my leg and arms will tire too fast, and I don’t want Dad’s momentum to slow – but I lift my chin to give the cool air access, wipe my face on my shoulder before climbing into the ute.
I chew my thumbnail on the way down Sandbag Road to the Five Mile turn-off. Dad sits quiet as we jolt along, then he leans forward and switches on the radio. Orchestra and the mournful guitars of Chicago swell in the cab.
Dad makes a teeth-sucking noise. ‘Fuckin’ hate this song.’
I’m tempted to ask why he doesn’t change the station, but I know he won’t do that. This car only has one station: Dad’s.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Not my favourite.’
‘Reminds me of your mother.’
I freeze. This is the first time he’s brought her up. I wet my bottom lip, decide to take the chance while I’ve got it. ‘S’pose she’s still living in Adelaide, then. Her and Kelly.’
‘S’pose so.’ Dad drives on, looking steadily ahead. ‘All the support requests came from there.’
Support requests? I’m not sure which I find more incredible, the fact we’re discussing this, or the fact that anybody could ever imagine my father complying with child support requirements.
‘That was a while ago, though,’ Dad goes on quietly. ‘Haven’t heard anything for a couple of years, at least.’
‘She’s still alive, though?’ I’m shocked by how thick my words come out.
‘Guess so.’ Dad shrugs. ‘The mail was from a PO box. She could be dead in a ditch, but I guess I wouldna got letters then.’
‘You’re gonna write down the forwarding address and stuff, are you?’ Doubt in my tone.
‘I’ll give you everything I got,’ Dad says. ‘When the time comes. It’s been a couple of years, like I said, but I can get in touch with people who’ll know.’
‘Right.’
He glances at me. ‘I said I’d do it and I will.’
I roll down the window to get some air, blow away the sting in my eyes. My crutches are propped on my right, near the gear shift, so they’re not bumping my injury. There’s the added advantage: they provide a useful barrier between me and Dad. Feeling protected, I decide to go for it.
‘Did Mum ever ask about me? In letters or anything?’ I have to look out the window as I say it.
The silence in the cab now can’t be masked by radio music over the speakers. It’s deeper than any old Cold Chisel song, deeper than the hollow gong in your guts after a quarry explosion. I get a terrible sense of having crossed a line and my eyes drag sideways against my will.
Dad’s not looking at me, though. He’s looking through the windscreen. I’d hate to think what he’s really seeing.
‘I’ve told you plenty of times already,’ he says softly. ‘Anthea knew the rules.’
The softness doesn’t fool me. His voice is full of menace and he’s gripping the steering wheel. If this was happening at home, I’d be laid out on the floor by now.
‘We split it fair and square,’ Dad goes on. ‘She took her stuff, I got the house. She got the girl, I got the boy. I told her never to come back. And if she tried to find you, to take what was mine by right…’
His eyes lock on mine.
‘…I said I’d fucking kill you myself before I let that happen.’
Dad pulls the handbrake and I realise we’ve rolled to a stop. All my skin is cold. My throat is too dry to spit.
‘Right. Let’s go have a beer.’ Dad pushes out of the cab, doesn’t wait for me to follow.
I sit there for a full minute before I can move. The hair on my arms is still standing up when I hobble my way into the pub.
The inside of the Five Flags seems surreal after the conversation I’ve just had. There’s the long solid bar, with Col Geraldson pulling beers for a few local boys. There’s the pool room, the dark drinking tables with the wooden chairs, the jukebox in the corner. A few other blokes in workboots and jeans are slugging back their drinks.
My brain and my body aren’t playing nice, neither of them cooperating as I crutch over to where my father is quietly arguing with Col at the bar. I feel like I’m moving through molasses.
‘…don’t wanna be rude, Dennis, but I can’t serve you until you’ve fixed up the tab,’ Col says.
Colin Geraldson is burly – when he played centre half back in his younger days his nickname actually was Burly Geraldson – and he’s not just the local publican, but our landlord. He doesn’t look unkind but he’s not a guy you wanna cross. His current expression is like a brick wall.
‘I’ve got it,’ I say quickly. I reach for my wallet and fish out one of the last of Terry Watts’s fifties.
‘See? Harris has got it.’ Dad has a note of victory in his voice. I don’t look at his face; he’ll be smirking. Even being close to him is making my gooseflesh rise.
Col appraises me before sliding the fifty off the bar, grabbing two pint glasses. ‘Fine then. But I’m cutting you off after the cash is gone.’
‘Harris wants a UDL,’ Dad says.
Col sighs and puts back one of the glasses.
Once Dad’s got his beer and moved off to a table, Col finds me a can of bourbon and coke, speaks quietly. ‘You know I can’t keep serving you unless Dennis pays his tab.’
We’re both watching my father. I nod, resigned. ‘How much does he owe? Maybe I could fix it up, so he’s not –’
‘A grand,’ Col says. ‘He owes me a grand, Harris. The tab here, plus two months’ rent on the house.’
I stare.
Col nods grimly. ‘And another grand in utilities, I hear. He might owe some money at Metcalfe’s as well. You didn’t know about that, did you? Your dad’s been racking up a few bills lately.’
For fuck’s sake. That isn’t ‘racking up a few bills’. That’s a solid debt. And the worst thing is, it’s kind of my fault. Dad’s been crapping out on everybody all over town in my absence and part of me knew he’d do it. When I left for Melbourne with Mike and Rachel, I figured I’d cut loose. Dad would have to sink or swim without me.
But now I’m back here, back in the mess he’s made. He’s my father. He’s my responsibility.
‘Something else you should know,’ Col goes on, disguising our chat with a wipedown of the bar. ‘Your dad’s in hock to some bookie in Mildura. Don’t know all the details. But from what I’ve heard, he could be neck-deep.’
‘Neck-deep?’ My voice is hoarse. ‘How much are we talking?’
Col shrugs. ‘Dunno. Could be as high as five grand.’
Seven grand, total. Seven thousand dollars.
Dad will never cover that. He might scrape together enough for the local bills, but if he’s in trouble with a bookie, things could get dirty real fast. And he’s gonna drag me down with him if I don’t do something about it.
But it’s bigger than I’d anticipated. Seven grand is more than I can possibly repay. The size of it makes me feel like a tiny boat rolling on a giant sea.
I rub my forehead. ‘Jesus. Thanks for telling me, Col. I can’t pay you tonight. I don’t…’ I don’t know how I’m gonna pay at all. I try to screw my head on straight. ‘Look, I’ll get you what you’re owed somehow. Let me sort it out, yeah? Just give me a few weeks to find it.’
Col looks at me, nods, moves along the bar to serve another customer. I turn around, lean against the wood, pop the ring tab on my can. The first long slug is to anchor me. The second is to help get my mind around this fucking ridiculous concept: I’m broke, I’m injured, I’m unemployed, and I’ve just taken on a seven thousand dollar debt.
This is insane. My father has lost the plot. What the hell is he doing, getting in deep with a bookie? How did he manage to rack up such a huge tab? How in hell am I gonna pay it back?
I’m jerked out of my contemplation of the pub’s wooden floorboards by a slap on the shoulder. The slap knocks me off balance; I right myself before I slip off the bar.
‘Hazza!’ Snowie Geraldson grins at me, opens out his hands.
‘Snow.’ The colour has dribbled out of my voice but I give pleasantries a try. ‘Hey, man, good to see you.’
‘Shit, mate, they told me you’d been wounded in action but I didn’t believe it.’ Snowie gestures at my leg, and the crutches, just as one of them slips off the bar and clatters to the floor. ‘You should be at a table, yeah? You want your crutch back?’
‘Yeah, cheers.’
Snowie retrieves my crutch, and between the two of us we get me to a table. One of the pub regulars puts some grey-bearded Jimmy Barnes song on the jukebox. Jesus, don’t people here get enough of Jimmy Barnes?
‘Mate, you look like death warmed over,’ Snowie says. ‘Get some booze into you, that’s it. What’s been going on?’
Skinny, with a loud-coloured silky shirt that practically screams I Am Not A Farmer, Snowie Geraldson is Colin’s second kid, and the only one who’s stayed local. Snowie’s a year older than me and, in a shocking break with the tradition of country nicknames – where redheads are called Bluey, and tall men are called Shorty – Snowie’s hair is actually snow-coloured: white-blond and upstanding. He’s always had fair hair, but I think he bleaches it now.
He listens while I give him the heavily edited version of how I got shot in the leg, whistling at the emergency bits. Snowie always does a good impression of listening to what you’ve got to say. When I’m done he buys me a beer. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him, but Snowie’s an okay guy.
He’s also my dealer.
‘So, no goodie bags to tide you over?’ he asks, waggling his eyebrows.
‘Nah, mate. Not exactly cashed up at the moment.’
‘And I’m guessing Col told you the bad news.’ His eyes flick towards the bar. Snowie and his father call each other by their first names, something I’ve never quite understood, but each to their own. ‘Your dad got up to a bit of mischief while you were in Melbourne, eh? Got in a bit of a pickle.’
‘Yeah, from being too pickled,’ I quip. Thinking about the debt still makes me feel sick.
Snowie shakes his head. ‘Hard call, mate. Feelin’ your pain there – I’m trying to help Col keep the pub propped up. Been working in Mildura to make some extra dough. This place…’ He waves a hand to encompass the bar, the pool room, the whole palaver. ‘Well, it’s not quite holding its own at the mo.’
‘I thought the pub was doing okay?’
‘Yeah, not so much. Lotsa people have left town. Lotsa businesses are hurting – ask Bev Metcalfe at the grocery how much she owes the bank. These old joints have got heaps of problems too – broken plumbing, shitty wiring. Be all right if it was just the business, but the upkeep’s a killer.’
I finally catch on. ‘That’s why Col’s calling in my dad’s debt.’
‘Yep.’ Snowie makes a snort. ‘Can’t give beer away for free, eh? Col loves this place. It’s all he knows. But if he can’t make it pay…’
So I’m not the only kid in town trying to help a parent stay solvent. That makes me feel slightly better, somehow.
I lean back in my chair. ‘And you’re working in Mildura? What’s the job?’
Snowie grins. ‘Let’s just say I got irons in a few different fires. I’m still around on a Friday night if you need anything.’ He winks at me.
‘I’ll let you know.’ I sigh. ‘Be a bit easier if some rich relative died and left us a few handy million, yeah?’
‘Too right. If I win the lotto or something, I’ll give you a call.’ Snowie laughs, nods at my drink. ‘Anyway, get that into ya. Can’t be depressed on your birthday.’
‘What?’
‘Well, you were rockin’ it up big this time last year…’
‘It’s the ninth of August?’ My face must look pained.
‘Yeah, mate.’ Snowie stands up. ‘You have that one, and I’ll get your next UDL on the house, while Dad’s still feeling generous. That’s a good pressie.’
He slaps my back, moves away to talk to another mate at the bar. I look at my can. It’s my birthday. I’m twenty years old today.
Twenty years old, and I feel like I’m a hundred.