Another Night in Mullet Town (3 page)

Beer on the boardwalk

Angelo and Patrick

wait on the boardwalk

in front of Balarang Bay Surf Club.

Angelo has baskets attached

to his bicycle

to take the beer to the lake

for tonight's party.

Manx and I dump the cartons

on the bench beside the bike

and Manx grins at Angelo.

‘You can carry my share

back home for me, too …'

he waits a few seconds past friendly

before adding the word, ‘… mate.'

Angelo looks at the beer.

‘But it's not the cheapest, you idiot.'

He realises what he's said

and takes an instinctive step away

as Manx clenches his fists.

Patrick holds up his hand

and says in a voice

with vowels in all the right places,

‘It's okay, Angelo.

Our friend has good taste,

don't you, Manx?'

Manx looks at me

and, when I don't say anything,

he says to Angelo,

‘Make sure the beer is cold tonight.'

He turns and walks away.

Patrick sneers at me.

‘Run along, Joany,

after your pet gorilla.'

As I retreat,

they make monkey sounds.

Lucky for them

Manx is too far away to hear.

A turd on the pier

Patrick Lloyd-Davis arrived in Turon

at the start of year ten

with a clipped haircut,

leather schoolbag

and a mother who dropped him at the school gates

in a black BMW.

His dad bought the grocery store,

turned it into a real estate agency

and started knocking on doors

looking for sellers.

The oldest house overlooking

the lake at Tipping Point

had a preservation order by the council,

but it only took a few meetings

for Mr Lloyd-Davis to change that.

In January the bulldozers arrived

and ripped the place down in a single day.

After two months of intense building

with six men on site every day,

a two-storey glass-and-concrete nightmare

rendered in ochre

dwarfed every house on the point.

Manx's dad reckons Mrs Lloyd-Davis spends

her days sunbathing on the verandah.

They have parties

and no-one from Turon

on the other side of the lake

is ever invited.

When Angelo saw Patrick's house

he made friends quickly,

probably hoping for an invite

and expecting pool party afternoons and free alcohol.

Manx's dad said the dirty feet of Turon

would never scuff the carpet

in the Lloyd-Davis palace.

Patrick is good at football,

always has a stash of pot

and talks about getting a Subaru WRX

for his seventeenth birthday –

a promise from his dad.

But no matter what he does

Manx has a new name

for him each week.

A speck.

A fly.

A well-dressed pigeon.

A turd on the pier.

Vodka Cruisers

Friday night,

the girls drink guava Vodka Cruisers

straight from the bottle

passing them round

in a circle beside the fire.

Rachel laughs louder than anyone

and spends almost as much time

tossing her hair back

as she does looking towards Manx.

Rachel's mum works nights at the supermarket

stacking shelves and trying to stay awake.

Rachel cooks dinner for her brother

who's nine years old,

tells him to do his homework

and ignores her own,

washing the dishes instead.

If there were a bet

on who was going to leave school for good

Rachel and Manx

would be neck and neck.

Patrick and Angelo are shirtless,

silver chains around their necks,

and the louder Rachel laughs,

the quicker the boys drink.

Manx and I sit on the tufts of grass

further up the slope

sharing our beers.

Manx watches every move Rachel makes.

Year after year,

they're still friends,

still waiting

for the other to make a move.

Broken glass and bravado

The night always ends

with broken bottles

piled up on the sand

and all of year ten

wondering who'll vomit first.

Most of the boys

spend their time

trying to impress the girls

by dive-bombing off the pier

or sculling stubbies in one gulp.

Ella sits on the grass above the sand

and avoids the gaze of the football boys.

Everyone cheers

when Harriet, a new girl at school,

runs the length of the pier

before leaping into the lake.

A bunch of boys race to join her.

I take a cautious sip of beer

and wonder how long

I should sit here

before walking across to Ella.

Another empty is thrown on the pile.

One of the crowd

Ella leaves the party early

before I work up the courage

to talk to her.

By the light of the fire

Patrick passes a joint to Rachel

and Angelo invites Harriet

to share in the spoils.

Manx and I

open another bottle

and watch the moonlight,

pretending we enjoy counting stars.

‘Why didn't Patrick go to the private school?' I ask.

‘Maybe his dad thought it was good for business

being one of the crowd,' Manx says.

He spits between his teeth.

Patrick puts a carefree arm

around Rachel

and she looks quickly towards Manx.

Rach used to sit between Manx and me

in the back row at primary school.

She read books about horses

and told us

her dad was mining out west

and coming home any day.

That was five years ago.

Now she removes Patrick's arm

from around her shoulder,

sucks deeply on the joint

and tries hard not to cough.

Exercise

The next morning,

I sleep in and wake to find the house

echoing with emptiness.

In the garden,

Mum is on her knees

weeding around the concrete edges

and carefully turning the soil

near the spinach and broccoli.

She stands and massages her lower back.

She wears black tights,

a loose sweater and running shoes.

When she bought the shoes

I told her they looked good

whereas Dad asked what she was planning.

Mum shrugged

and said she might run around the lake

in the evening.

In the end, eight hours standing on the filleting line

was more than enough exercise for one day,

so she paid $125

for shoes to wear while gardening.

Mum washes her hands under the hose

and looks up at the heavy clouds.

She sees me at the open window.

‘I love the rain,' she says.

‘It washes everything clean.'

She attempts a smile.

‘A chance to start over,' I reply.

She turns off the tap

and picks a bunch of spinach.

Shaking the dirt from the stalks,

she says,

‘That's something your father would say.'

The art of lawn mowing

There's a can of two-stroke

in the plywood cupboard

at the back of Dad's shed.

I shake the contents,

and judge that it's enough for today

if I move quickly before the rain.

I fill the mower,

replace the cap,

set the throttle

and pull the cord.

The mower splutters to life

and I give it enough revs

to wake the dwarves on Mr Crewe's fence.

When I was ten

Dad taught me

the art of lawn mowing.

He called it ‘Zen on Saturday'.

‘Start from the fence,

move forward and back

and keep your feet clear when turning,' he'd say.

I remove the grass-catcher

because I want to walk through the clippings

kicking them as I go

to remember how I felt as a child

picking up piles and throwing them at Mum

who'd brought lemonade to the back step.

Mum would chase me around the yard

vowing to stuff grass down my shirt.

I'd escape her clutches,

so she'd turn and run towards Dad,

throwing herself into his arms.

They'd roll around together in the grass, laughing,

and I'd watch and wonder

how long before they realised I was there.

It seemed like forever.

Mr Crewe waves at me

and yells something over the fence.

I bet he's suggesting I mow his lawn

when I've finished ours.

And I just might

because it's never too late

to be ten years old again.

Business

My phone beeps.

I take it out of my pocket

to find a message from Manx.

It's a photo of him

holding a fishing rod

with a mullet dancing on the line.

The message reads:

Third fish this morning,

I'm going into business.

I can't help but smile.

He's signed it:

Manx Inc.

I text back:

Meet you tomorrow

and we'll double the catch.

I sign it:

The Fish Brothers.

I can see him now,

sitting beside the lake

laughing and swearing

and planning on selling

the extra fish to Mrs King,

the old lady who lives

a few doors down.

In the soft light

After spinach pie

and mashed potato,

with the rain echoing

on the corrugated roof,

and Dad somewhere

between here and Adelaide,

Mum sits at the kitchen table

with a small jar of red nail polish.

I watch as she files her nails

to a smooth round tip.

Delicate veins

thread along the back of her hands.

The fumes make my eyes water

as Mum applies a second coat

to the nails of her left hand

even though

she hasn't touched the ones

on her right.

She carefully blows the polish dry,

then hands me the jar

and extends her right hand.

I dip the brush into the polish

and apply a thin smear

to her little finger.

We don't speak

all my effort focused on her nails,

red and glowing,

in the soft light of the evening.

The end of the sentence

‘Jonah,' Mum says

as I finish her thumbnail

with a deliberate flourish.

‘What would you think

if I went to stay with your auntie

at Balarang Bay?'

I screw the cap back on the nail polish.

‘Just until the car gets fixed.

My shift starts too early for the bus

and your dad and I need to

sort out a few things,' she adds.

‘But you've been arguing for years,' I say.

I try to remember

when it wasn't like this.

When I was at primary school

and Mum didn't work long shifts

and Dad didn't drink anywhere near

what he does now.

She touches my wrist.

‘You can stay with me,' she says.

I shake my head.

‘Auntie Trish looks at me like I'm Dad's son.'

Mum sighs.

I thought they were meant to leave

one another –

not me.

‘I'll borrow Trish's car,' Mum says.

‘And, when your dad's not here,

I'll come and cook you dinner.'

A vein throbs in my temple,

like my head is about to explode.

I know what she wants to hear,

but I struggle to get out the words.

‘I'll be okay,' I say.

Mum packs the nail polish back into her bag.

‘Just for a while,' she says, ‘until …'

Both of us know there's no

end to that sentence.

The line-up

In the darkness of my bedroom

I switch on the computer

and bring up photos

from my school online.

I find the class portrait of year ten

arranged on three tiers

in front of the Science block –

uniform-neat,

girls: knees together,

boys: collars down.

Manx and I are up the back

on the far left –

neither of us smiling.

Patrick is front and centre

between Rachel and Harriet.

Ella is in the middle row

her hair tied back,

her chin lifted just enough

to show she doesn't approve

of this cattle call.

And Angelo in the middle row

is deliberately cross-eyed,

tongue out –

the class gargoyle.

I stare at the faces as

a storm bird calls in the garden

and is answered by thunder.

I count off the students

with only one parent at home:

six out of thirty,

including Manx

and Rachel.

I close the screen

and decide

it's the only time

I don't want to be like my friends.

Sunday for leaving

I shrug into a jacket, jeans

and shoes without socks

because I can't find a clean pair.

Mum is already in the kitchen,

her suitcase beside the back door.

She looks away when I walk in.

I don't feel like breakfast.

‘Trish will be here in a few minutes,' Mum says.

I take a deep breath.

‘I might visit Manx.'

Mum reaches out her arms

and we embrace.

My head rests on her shoulder;

I smell lilac soap

and nail polish.

I close my eyes.

‘I've left enough money

for bus fares and food

until your dad gets back,' Mum says.

I step away,

suddenly angry.

‘He has a name, you know.'

I stomp out the back door

and Mum calls after me,

but I don't stop.

I leap over the fence,

run towards the track

and up to the top of Sattlers Hill.

Auntie Trish's car turns the corner.

Mum walks to the footpath

and tosses her suitcase into the back seat,

but doesn't get into the car.

She says something to Trish,

then runs back inside.

She's gone for a few minutes

until Trish sounds the horn.

Mum hops in the front seat.

The car rumbles down the street.