Paper Alice (7 page)

There was another pause, about the twentieth that night. We chewed on.

Suddenly there was a great lump in my throat; I thought I was going to cry. Either that or lean over, shake my father and scream: for god's
sake
, Dad, just
cheer up
!

‘Still enjoying his course?' asked Mum, after a moment.

I shrugged once more. ‘Seems to be. He's doing OK, I think.'

Like many of his friends, Dunc was studying Commerce. He was in second year and got by on just enough work to maintain a credit average, with the odd distinction thrown in. He never seemed to get too stressed about work, or about anything else, for that matter. Like me, he was thinking about spending a semester on exchange somewhere overseas, but we never really discussed what he wanted to do at the end of his degree. If ever there was a here-and-now type person it was Dunc.

As for me, I didn't have much of a clue either. Just navigating first year was enough to keep me occupied.

Mum lifted one eyebrow.

‘You could certainly never accuse our Duncan of being a worrywart.'

I turned my head.

‘What's that supposed to mean?'

She shrugged, poking at her food. ‘Just what I said,' she said lightly. ‘He's not one to . . . take the weight of the world on his shoulders, that's all.'

I stared at her, my pulse beginning to quicken. ‘What?' I said at last. ‘You mean he doesn't spend every minute of every day bemoaning the fate of the world's starving millions?'

Sometimes it really annoys me just how easily she can get to me.

Dad sighed, very wearily. ‘Come, you two . . .'

Another tiny shrug from Mum.

‘Well, he's not one to lose much sleep over the big issues.'

‘How would
you
know?' I leant towards her, suddenly boiling with rage. It was one thing for me to think such thoughts, quite another thing for her to come out and say them.

‘How would
you
know, Mum, what Dunc thinks? He – he's actually quite . . .'

I trailed off, unable to think of any examples of altruistic impulses on my boyfriend's part towards the less fortunate. Their cricket team had coached some underprivileged kids a few years back, but that had been at the school's instigation, not the boys'. Dunc had enjoyed doing it, but it hadn't inspired him to carry on with anything else like that.

I could hardly accuse Mum of not doing anything for the greater good. She's been the chairwoman of a high-powered professional women's group that's raised a heap of money for various charities over the years.

‘Anyway,' I finished, ‘you wouldn't really know
what
he's like! You make him so
nervous
whenever he's here that it's a wonder he dares open his mouth!'

‘Al-ice,' growled Dad, into the ensuing silence.

But I was looking at Mum, gratified to see a tiny look of shock, then hurt, register in her eyes. Her gaze met mine.

‘Nonsense,' she said, but I knew I'd hit a nerve. I waited.

‘Well,' she said finally, slowly, ‘I'm sorry if I . . .
scare
Dunc. I don't mean to . . .'

She broke off, looking at Dad for support. He frowned.

‘I think you're laying it on a bit thick, Al–'

‘No, I'm
not
!' I cried recklessly. Things had gone
from bad to worse; I might as well drag them right to the bottom.

I swung back to Mum.

‘It's just that you're so . . .
judgemental
sometimes, and not just about Dunc! About heaps of things.' I folded my arms, staring down at the remains of my dinner. ‘I'm sorry I'm not Miss Perfect; neither of us are.' Then I realised what I'd said and added, ‘He's not Mr Perfect, I mean.'

Mum's hand came onto mine. I looked up and was amazed to see that she suddenly seemed to be about to cry, something I've hardly ever seen her do.

Then I glanced at Dad again. By now he would normally well and truly have taken up the role of arbitrator and peacemaker; yet here he was staring down at his plate again, detached, almost remote.

Desolation flooded through me like a tide of dirty brown water.

‘I'm sorry, darling.' Mum was blinking, squeezing my hand in hers. ‘It's just that . . . well, we really like Dunc and everything, don't we, Pete?'

Dad, still not looking up, nodded slowly.

‘It's just that you've been going out with him
forever
– he's the only real boyfriend you've ever had. And we worry about you getting tied down so soon, that's all . . .' She trailed off and I could feel her looking at me, but I'd dropped my gaze and was staring fixedly at the bowl of oranges in the middle of the table.

‘Perhaps,' she went on, after a moment, ‘you should think about going out with other boys for a while.'

More silence.

‘I'm not
tied down
,' I muttered finally. I'd grabbed the
pepper grinder and was batting it back and forth between my fingers. ‘And I don't
wanna
go out with other boys.'

Even as I said it I knew it wasn't the absolute, one hundred per cent truth. Then again, what is?

I glanced surreptitiously at the two of them. Right now there was quite enough going on in my life without any more changes taking place.

D
unc and I ate lunch together on the lawn outside the library the next day, sitting facing one another cross-legged, knees brushing occasionally.

‘Brrr,' I said after a while, reaching for my jacket. ‘I can't work out whether I'm hot or cold.'

It was one of those days when you don't realise there's a breeze – until the sun goes behind a cloud.

‘Cold!' cried Dunc automatically. ‘How can you be cold?'

I wouldn't mind a couple of bucks for every time we've had this conversation. He as usual was in just his T-shirt – he only adds another layer if it's about to snow.

I made a face at him as I stuck my arms in the sleeves and pulled it on.

‘Well,' he said, swallowing a mouthful, ‘are you coming tonight?'

He was talking about a gathering at the pub to farewell one of his friends who was going overseas.

‘Um,' I said, ‘what time will it finish?'

Dunc shrugged. ‘How would I know? Till the last ones go, I guess, or the pub shuts.' He looked at me. ‘Why?'

‘We-ell . . .' I took a deep breath and started plucking at the grass. ‘That guy at the Rose and Star that night – the one who thought I was Wilda – mentioned some kind of reading, poetry or something, in the Cave tonight that I . . .' I broke off with a laugh, ‘I mean
she
was meant to be going to, so . . .'

‘Oh, for god's sake, Al,' he broke in, half frowning. ‘Leave it, why don't you? This chick looks like you – big deal! She sounds like a weirdo if you ask me.'

I sighed. ‘I know. It's . . . just that . . .'

But I was interrupted by a cry of ‘Hey Dunc!'

We looked up to see two girls, books in their arms, walking past – several metres away. They waved; Dunc gave a little wave back.

‘Hey.'

They both looked at me.

‘Hope we're not interrupting anything!' one of them called.

You are, actually
, I felt like calling out to them.
We were discussing a plot to blow up the Harbour Bridge.

We both laughed and shook our heads.

‘No.'

Thankfully they kept going. ‘See you this afternoon,' one of them said to Dunc over her shoulder.

‘Yeah, see ya.'

He turned back to me.

‘She's in my accounting tute,' he said, with a little shrug.

I looked back at the two figures, long hair bobbing
down their backs as they chatted their way across the lawn. Both carefully dressed in layered, figure-hugging gear. I gave a little laugh.

‘They look like accounting students.'

Dunc looked at me. ‘What's that supposed to mean?'

‘Oh . . .' I shrugged, feeling like a bitch again. I wondered if I was becoming like my mother. ‘It's just that they look so . . .
neat
, that's all. Like they're already dressing for the office.'

We turned again and watched as they stepped off the lawn and onto the road. A car braked; they crossed in front of it without looking at it.

‘They look OK to me,' he said, his eyes still on them.

‘Yeah.' I gave another little laugh and resumed my grass pulling. ‘They would.'

I could feel him look at me again.

‘Alice . . .'

‘Well, I'm sorry I don't dress up like that every day just to go to uni!' I said, indicating my ancient jeans and two-year-old T-shirt. ‘I mean, they must spend a fortune just on make-up alone!'

How irrational and attention-seeking did that just sound, scolded inner Alice. Was I about to get my period?

‘Well, they're allowed to if they want to.' Dunc raised an eyebrow. ‘It's a free country.'

‘Yep.' I sighed and touched his hand. ‘I know – of course they are.' Then I grinned, my eyes meeting his. ‘Maybe you should go out with one of them – one of those glamour girls.'

He laughed. ‘Maybe I should!'

‘Or I should start trying to dress like Paris Hilton,'
I said, watching his face. ‘You'd like that, wouldn't you?'

He stared back at me; I tapped his hand. ‘
Wouldn't
you?'

A shrug and a laugh. ‘Maybe, sometimes.'

I snorted.

‘What's wrong with looking like Paris Hilton?' he cried.

‘Du-unc!' I pulled my hands away, annoyance suddenly flaring in me like matches tossed in a fire. ‘She's a total
ditz
! And a complete tart,' I added, folding my arms.

He grinned. ‘But a great-looking ditz!' His smile widened as he watched me take the bait. ‘And hey – a bit of tart is good!'

I stared at him, suddenly wanting to wipe that grin off his face. Despite being a teasing one, it took a lot for granted.

It was a moment when everything could suddenly change. But then I laughed and gave him a punch in the shoulder – a small but hard one. He grabbed my wrists and held them firmly, his brownish eyes glinting in the sun. His smell so warm, so familiar.

‘If I promise,' I cried, wriggling and giggling, ‘to be more like Paris Hilton, will you let me go?'

He pulled me closer, till our faces were almost touching.

‘You promise?'

‘
Yes!
' I shrieked, finally wrenching free. I fell against him and started tickling him in the ribs, till we were both gasping with laughter.

Funny though. A tiny part of me had stepped away and was observing us, carrying on.

I still hadn't really made up my mind about what I'd do that night when I asked Dad if I could borrow his car. If I showed up at the pub I wouldn't be able to drink, being on my Ps, but at least having the car would give me flexibility. And it wouldn't matter so much if I lost my nerve and chickened out from going to the playreading at the last minute.

I'd made myself useful before dinner, taking out the rubbish, pouring Dad a beer and getting stuff out of the fridge for dinner. We were having stir-fry. Not a proper, recipe-type, but one of the general hodge-podge variety, using up whatever veggies we had left in the crisper.

This was a sure sign that Dad was feeling uninspired. Up until recently he'd been a fantastic, show-off kind of cook, taking great delight in tackling new and complicated culinary challenges. Now, since he'd been at home he was doing all the cooking, but with none of his usual creativity or zest.

He put the water on for the rice and bent down to fish the wok out of the cupboard. I glanced at the clock: 6.45. Mum would be arriving home any minute; it was now or never. I reached for a knife and busied myself slicing some rather elderly carrots.

‘Oh, by the way Dad,' I asked casually, ‘is it all right if I borrow your car for a little while tonight?'

Dad, looking for stuff in the pantry cupboard, grunted.

‘Where're you going?'

‘Oh, to a thing at uni maybe, and then to a farewell for one of Dunc's friends who's going overseas–'

‘Where?'

I reached for the garlic. ‘At a pub.' ‘

Well, no drinking then,' he said automatically. He leant further into the cupboard and started ferreting through the jars and bottles.

I sighed. ‘No, Dad.'

‘Where the
hell
is the soy sauce?'

When I crossed to the cupboard, the very first thing I spotted was the bottle of soy sauce, hiding behind the olive oil.

‘There!' I grabbed it, put my other hand round the back of his neck and practically rubbed his nose with the bottle. ‘You just never look, do you?' I teased, imitating one of Mum's catchcries.

Normally Dad would have laughed and said something like ‘You're a legend!', but now he just tried for a smile, taking it from me with barely a thank you.

Something caught in my throat. I stepped forward and put my arms around him, laying my head on his chest.

‘Hey, Dad,' I whispered, alarmed to feel tears suddenly rising in my eyes. ‘You OK?'

He put his arms around me and I snuggled into him, his scratchy chin resting on the top of my head. He sighed, and we stood there like that, leaning on each other. My eyes brimmed, but I couldn't move to wipe them. Finally I gave a huge sniff – a dead give-away.

‘Hey . . .' Dad pulled away and looked at me. I hastily wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, turned and picked up the garlic again.

He put a hand on my shoulder and sighed.

‘Bubs – I'm sorry!'

I glanced sideways at him and got another little shock at how drained he looked, all saggy and defeated.

‘It's not your fault!' I cried, ripping the skin off a clove. ‘It's those bastards who . . . let you go!' I put it down on the board and started chopping at it savagely.

He stood there, quite still, and when I looked at him again I was aghast to see tears in
his
eyes.

‘
Dad!
' I dropped the knife, staring at him. The only time I'd ever seen him cry before was when Nanna and Pop died, all those years ago. I made a little rush at him and grabbed his arms.

‘Stop it!' I cried, almost shaking him. ‘It'll be OK . . . things'll work out . . .
please
, stop worrying.'

I hugged him hard again, as if to draw out his sadness. But he just kept standing there, like a block of wood.

‘Please, Dad,' I said again. ‘Please . . .'

Just then Mum walked in, briefcase in hand. We hadn't even registered the sound of her car.

‘Hi-i,' she said, then stopped dead at the sight of the two of us, standing there looking so tragic.

‘Hi, Tinks.' I could almost feel Dad shake himself, make an almighty effort to pull himself together. He went over, put an arm around her shoulder and gave her a kiss. ‘Good day?'

‘So-so.' She put her case down and then her arm around his waist, looking into his face and then at me with a little frown. ‘You OK?'

‘I'm fine.' He tried to wink at me, but it had none of its usual cheek. He cranked out another laugh. ‘Think I just need some food, that's all! Al's going out tonight,' he added, coming back to the bench, ‘so we better get a move on.'

Mum looked at me.

‘Oh?'

‘Yeah,' I said lightly, steeling myself. ‘I'm going to this thing at uni, and then to a farewell for a friend of Dunc's.'

Silence. She took off her coat, laid it over a chair, then turned to look at us.

‘And how are you getting there?'

Dad and I glanced at one another. I swallowed.

‘Dad said,' I mumbled, ‘I could take his car.'

Mum glanced at the unset table and crossed to the cutlery drawer.

‘Well,' she said finally, her voice deceptively even, ‘isn't it lucky that you've now got someone
else
to ask.'

Dad, having lost his company car along with the job, had only recently acquired a second-hand Golf. And after the shemozzle of my recent lateness I certainly wouldn't have been game to ask her for the Mazda.

‘Oh,
Mum
. . .'

‘Don't “Mum” me, Alice – you made a promise.'

‘But I got stuck!'

‘Oh, for god's sake, Marisa!'

It was Dad, suddenly sounding quite angry. Mum and I swung round.

‘She
said
she was sorry; it's not as though she makes a habit of it.' Dad banged the wok down on the cooktop and jabbed at the controls. ‘It's not the end of the bloody world!'

Mum and I stared at him; I felt another sickening little drop in my stomach. This was so unlike Dad's usual diplomacy.

Mum looked at him for a moment longer, then
walked over, picked up her briefcase and coat and went upstairs.

Dinner wasn't exactly joyous that night, either.

It started to rain as I set off and by the time I reached the Harbour Bridge entrance it was bucketing down.

Driving across the bridge at the best of times I find daunting, but on a wet night it's positively scary. Teeth clenched, I ploughed along in my lane as though through a river, water spraying out on all sides, the oncoming headlights dazzling through the glass. The windscreen was getting increasingly foggy, but I wasn't familiar with the dials on the Golf and didn't dare take my eyes off the road for a second.

Once I'd finally exited via the Glebe ramp, however, I found the demister, and also the time to start worrying all over again about my destination. I couldn't believe I was heading for something I would never normally go to, and where I probably wouldn't know a soul (apart, maybe, from the people at Paul's house, who I didn't want to see anyway), just to get a glimpse of my so-called double. I'd be there all on my own, looking, as Dad would say, like a shag on a rock.

The batting of the windscreen wipers back and forth in front of me was distracting; my thoughts fell into the same rhythm.
Why go, why go, why go?

A light in front changed to red and as I braked I suddenly got a mental image of the farm rubbish dump in a gully down the back of Nanna and Pop's place all those years ago. All kinds of stuff had been tossed there over time – lengths of rusted barbed wire, ruined tyres, empty drums, rotting cardboard cartons and sheets of corrugated iron. There were even the
remains of an ancient ute, poking out from the bottom of it all.