Riggs Crossing (12 page)

Chapter 31

The burgundy rinse that Cinnamon put through her hair did look over-the-top right after she did it, but that was a couple of weeks ago. Now, her hair just has discreet purpley glints in it.

After Bindi left, Cinnamon’s personality sort of collapsed. She’s always been dumb, but when Bindi shot through, she went from just plain dumb to positively docile. She never cared about school except as an opportunity to chat up boys, then after Bindi left she wasn’t even interested in boys anymore and refused to go to school until Lyyssa, Major Heath, and some dork from DOCS cajoled, reasoned, and finally forced her to go back. When Bindi was still around, she listened to Bindi’s music. With Bindi gone, Cinnamon rarely listens to music. Her room went from rebelliously messy to a complete pigsty, and her fashion sense went from ‘Look at my boobs’ to ‘I don’t give a rat’s arse’. She went from flaunting her big tits in halter tops and exposing her bum cleavage in hipster jeans to skulking around in track suits. For a while, she didn’t even bother to shower every day. She never got smelly like Shane, though.

The hair dye changed everything.

Cinnamon started fooling around with her hair again, giving it conditioning treatments and fiddling around with curling tongs for hours on end. She bought a couple of hairstyle magazines and tried to duplicate all the ones in the ‘long’ section. I had a look at that magazine when she left it in the TV room one day. Some of the styles in the ‘avant-garde’ section were so ridiculous they made me laugh. Anyway, my hairstyle is what you’d call a chin-length bob, and no amount of extensions or fancy colours would do anything for me.

Then her dress sense changed. Cinnamon bought some fashion magazines, including an Italian one that cost fifteen dollars that she couldn’t even read. She studied these magazines for a week. Then she stopped dressing like a slob, but didn’t go back to the flashy moll look. She came up with a style that’s not Designer Chic or Sporty or Classic or New Age Gypsy or any other ‘style’ that you see in a magazine. It’s her own style, and nobody else’s.

She put her track suits away, and threw the tarty tops and skin-tight jeans into the storage room with all the other cast-off clothes. She used some clothing vouchers to buy some black jeans, and scored a pair of practically new Doc Martens when Major Heath brought over some clothing donations to let us have first pick before they went to the Op Shop. With her pocket money, she bought some T-shirts at Jay Jay’s on University Road.

Then she made herself a necklace.

All those fashion magazines Cinnamon bought have ads for pearl necklaces that cost thousands of dollars and diamond necklaces that cost a million dollars. None of them looks as good as the necklace that Cinnamon put together from a leather string with a clasp and a handful of beads. And there’s not another one like it in the world.

For a long time, Cinnamon’s room was silent. Lyyssa asked Cinnamon if she wanted the CDs that Bindi left behind. Cinnamon said yes, but she never listened to them, and before too long she chucked them all in the storage room. Then, three weeks after the hair dye and a week after the wardrobe transformation, music began to drift down the hall from Cinnamon’s room.

She flitted between radio stations. One day it would be middle-of-the-road pop, the next day oldies from the sixties and seventies, then some weird alternative station run by students at some university who sometimes forgot that the music was due to finish and broadcast silence for five minutes before someone realised what was going on, then the gay station with non-stop dance music and cheesy stuff from the fifties that you’re meant to laugh at, then the Arabic-language station, then the Spanish-language station. I really couldn’t believe it when I heard Cinnamon’s radio set to a classical music station, all dazzling piano cascades and screeching opera. After sampling radio stations for a couple of weeks, Cinnamon came home with a few CDs. Then Sky Morningstar burned her a copy of a Portishead CD, which she keeps playing.

There isn’t really a name for the kind of music Cinnamon settled on, or if there is, I don’t know it.

The music drifting down the hall is slow, moody, hypnotic. It’s music to dance to, music to have sex to, music to smoke dope to. Music that announces you’re too old for a Refuge full of kids that no one knows what to do with.

I know Cinnamon won’t be with us for much longer. She won’t run off like Bindi did, though. Cinnamon’s music tells me that she’ll pick her moment more carefully.

I lie in bed thinking about Cinnamon’s hair, how it shines when the light hits it.

Daddy’s got business down in Sydney, so Reggie and I are staying at Ernie’s for a couple of days. The first day I’m there, a Kombi comes up Ernie’s drive. It’s yellow, with peace signs painted on the side.

‘Shit,’ Ernie says. ‘Coupla jerks from Sydney.’ He looks at me and bites his lip.

‘It’s okay, Ernie,’ I tell him. ‘I know what they’re here for.’

‘Yeah?’ Ernie says. ‘You’re not supposed to.’

‘Do you think I’m stupid?’

Ernie sighs. ‘I’ll get rid of ’em before sundown. Make yourself scarce when we’re talking business.’

The Kombi door on the passenger side opens and a petite lady steps out, gingerly placing a Doc Marten into the mud. She’s wearing a long denim skirt and a tie-dyed tank top. She’s kind of pretty, with a little brunette doll’s head on a short neck. A young man with long legs and black hair gets out of the driver’s side carrying a six-pack.

Reggie growls. ‘Quiet,’ I tell him.

‘Hellooo!’ the lady sings out. ‘Hey, doggie!’ She goes for Reggie. He runs under the house.

Ernie walks out to greet them. ‘Shannon. Dylan. Good to see you.’

‘We just happened to be driving through. We thought we’d stop by on the way to Byron.’

Wankers. They haven’t ‘just happened’ to drive here. They’ve left the Pacific Highway and driven a hundred kliks inland to someplace that isn’t even on the map.

Shannon talks all the way up the stairs, down the hall and into the lounge room. Shannon’s an artist. She’s also a psychic. Dylan doesn’t say anything. His eyes don’t focus on anything. He’s on his third beer by the time Shannon stops talking about what she’s going to paint at Byron and how she makes fourteen dollars an hour plus commission for giving tarot readings on a 1300 number.

‘Oh my God, Dylan, would you look at this view? I could sooo paint this view, it is sooo awesome.’

Dylan ambles onto the back verandah and sucks on his beer.

‘Ernie, you are sooo lucky to have a place like this. Dylan and I are paying five-eighty a week for our flat in Fairlight.’

‘Luck’s got nothing to do with it, Darl.’ Ernie never calls any woman he likes Darl. ‘Nobody handed me this property on a silver platter.’

Shannon turns back to face Ernie. ‘Oh, but you are lucky! You’ve even got a vegetable garden! Just think, Dylan, if we moved up here, we could have a baby, and grow fresh veggies, and I could make my own jam.’

Dylan carries his empty bottle into the kitchen and comes out with a fresh one.

Shannon is wandering around the room looking at things while she talks. She starts going through Ernie’s CDs. ‘Oh my God, I love Portishead.’ She puts the CD on without even asking Ernie.

Ernie hates Portishead. Ernie likes Cold Chisel. Kaydee must have forgotten to take the Portishead CD when Ernie threw her out for borrowing his new leather jacket without asking and losing it someplace.

Shannon does a few slow ballet twirls around the room. Ernie gets up, crosses the room, and turns the music down.

‘Ernie, you should paint,’ Shannon says.

‘Paint?’ Ernie says. ‘I can’t paint. I never went to no art school.’

‘But Ernie, you’re a Scorpio. You’re intense, you don’t need training. It’s cool as long as you’re creatively creating what you want to create.’

Ernie turns to Dylan. How’s the removals business?’

‘Mad,’Dylan says.

‘We’re going to Spain next year,’ Shannon says.

Suddenly, it goes quiet. Shannon looks at me, smiles vacantly, and then looks at Ernie. Ernie looks at me.

‘I think I’ll take Reggie for a walk,’ I announce, and walk out the front door. How lame. Nobody takes their dog for a walk in the country. And Reggie won’t come out from under the house, so I walk down the front drive kicking stones.

Those two showing up here is so uncool. I start kicking a stone for every stupid thing Ernie has done.

He got too drunk to watch his mouth. Kick.

He told somebody that he grows dope. Kick.

He used his real name. Kick.

He told somebody where he lives. Kick.

He told somebody exactly where he lives, right down to the dirt road with no name. Kick.

He was probably trying to get into Shannon’s knickers. Kick.

He was so keen to get into Shannon’s knickers that he told her his astrological sign. Kick.

He didn’t put the brakes on the situation before those two morons got in the house. Kick.

After kicking all those stones, I feel pretty good. I’m not wearing a watch, but I reckon they’ve had enough time. I head back inside.

‘What do you mean it shouldn’t be legalised?’ Shannon is squealing.

‘Some of the most beautiful experiences of my life happened when I was on drugs,’ Dylan says. He’s staring at Ernie like Ernie just farted in church. ‘Shannon’s brother is halfway through a ten-year sentence. And for what?’ He shakes his head and looks at Ernie like he thinks Ernie is a real retard.

‘And just think, the police wouldn’t hassle you or anybody else.’ Shannon nods vigorously.

‘Yeah, I’d be laughing if the price dropped to ten bucks a kilo.’ Ernie’s hands are balling into fists.

He let it slip that he grows commercially, not for personal use. And he let it slip to a motormouth who might let it slip to her stupid friends, who might let it slip to their stupid friends. Kick, kick, kick.

I’m kicking the Portishead CD case across the wood floor with the side of my foot. Ernie looks at me. I pick it up and put it on the entertainment unit.

‘Grow your own mull, grow your own veggies, milk your own cows. Utopia.’ Shannon smiles dreamily.

Ernie stands up. He’s smiling dangerously. These people don’t know he used to be a boxer. ‘You want to be on your way before it gets dark.’

We sit on the verandah and watch the Kombi drive away. Reggie comes out from under the house. Ernie knows what I’m thinking. I don’t even have to say it.

‘Met ’em at a party in Sydney,’ he explains wearily, and shuffles inside.

Chapter 32

Tonight’s
Clarissa Hobbs
episode is about racehorses. Clarissa’s accountant has told her that she needs to lose some money for tax purposes. He says that owning a racehorse is a good way to lose money, so Clarissa goes to an auction and buys herself a thoroughbred horse.

The episode ends with Clarissa’s horse winning a big race at Del Mar. As the credits roll, Clarissa is in the Winner’s Circle, dressed in a yellow linen suit and wide-brimmed hat. Clarissa smiles for the photographers as she holds the big silver trophy, then poses next to the horse, holding his bridle and patting him even though he’s prancing and tossing his head.

I turn off the TV, grab a couple of muesli bars from the pantry and a Gatorade from the fridge, and climb the stairs. Cinnamon’s music is a little more mainstream than normal tonight. She’s back to playing Portishead. I can still hear the music after I go into my room and close the door, but I don’t mind.

I keep a carafe of water in my room, and a spare glass. I dilute the Gatorade to quarter-strength, and sip it while I’m doing my yoga routine. The sequence came from an old book with a damaged cover, so I figured there wasn’t any harm in cutting out the pictures I wanted and putting them on my walls with Blu-Tack. It’s not like anybody else wanted that book.

After I’ve finished my yoga and most of the diluted Gatorade, I go down the hall to pee before I go to bed.

Portishead is still playing and Cinnamon is singing along as I drift off to sleep.

It’s raining and we’re standing next to the fence in the upper paddock. Daddy’s wearing his Driza-Bone and a hat. I’m wearing my hooded yellow raincoat and gumboots. My feet got wet anyway and my socks are squelching around. Reggie isn’t with us because he’s a wuss about going out in the rain.

‘Looks like Holly’s dumped another horse that she couldn’t be arsed looking after,’ Daddy grumbles. Holly doesn’t visit us anymore, not after what happened. When we see each other in town, she and Daddy ignore each other.

There’s a new horse in the paddock. He’s chestnut, with a white face. He’s made friends with the others already. There’s an old grey gelding that’s blind, and an old chestnut gelding that wobbles because he had a stroke. There’s a fat little yellow Galloway mare, and a funny little Appaloosa gelding with a short neck who thinks he’s boss of the paddock. These are the horses that Daddy agreed to take, because the people who had them were going to shoot them otherwise. They don’t get fed or rugged up. They seem to do okay looking after themselves.

Word got around that Daddy was a soft touch, so after the fourth horse, Daddy started saying no to people who were looking to unload a horse they didn’t want anymore. ‘I’ve already got four, I can’t take another,’ Daddy would say firmly.

Horse number five, Queen of Cups, appeared in the paddock after Daddy and Holly had the fight. Holly went to Byron Bay to stay with some friends for a while, and couldn’t be bothered making arrangements for someone to look after Queen of Cups, so she dumped her in our paddock. When Holly came back to Riggs Crossing, she didn’t come to get Queen of Cups. She just got herself another horse.

‘Probably got him ’cause she liked his white face,’ Daddy comments, watching the horse canter around the paddock. ‘Wonder why she’s thrown him away after three months.’

Daddy hears from Ernie who heard from someone else that the new horse is named Aghamore. When Holly named Queen of Cups, she was into tarot cards. When Holly named Aghamore, she was into Celtic things.

Daddy sends word back via Ernie and on through the feral grapevine that if Holly dumps one more horse on his property, she’ll get all three of them back as dog meat.

The next time we go to the upper paddock it’s raining again and Ernie’s with us.

‘Aghamore,’ Ernie snorts, looking at the horse. ‘How pretentious is that?’

‘Possum calls him ”Aggie”.’

‘Yeah? He used to be a racehorse, or so they say, I dunno. Holly come off him when he spooked. That’s when she decided she didn’t want him anymore.’

‘Useless bitch. If she can’t ride properly and can’t be arsed learning, she should forget about horses and start raising guinea pigs or get herself a goddam worm farm.’

Daddy never uses language like that in front of me. Except when he’s talking about Holly.

‘I reckon Holly’s lost interest in horses. She’s got other stuff to keep herself busy. Bree seen her in town picking up an old crib and a pram from Stevie Jackson and his missus.’

Daddy’s mouth falls open. ‘How far along is she?’

Ernie laughs. ‘Coupla months. Don’t worry, you’re sweet.’

Daddy looks relieved. ‘Whaddaya reckon she dumps the kid in the paddock when she gets tired of it?’ Daddy doesn’t usually say mean things about other people, but when Holly’s name comes up in conversation, he can’t seem to stop himself.

‘Naaah. Kids get you more dole money. That’s why all those feral chicks get themselves up the duff in the first place, they’ve worked out that being a single mother’s a good bludge.’

Aggie is furrier than the last time we saw him. He’s a nice horse. He grooms all the other horses except for the two mares. Whenever Aggie tries to go near the mares, the little Appaloosa charges him.

‘Useless little runt,’ Ernie laughs. ‘Like he could do anything with those mares anyway.’

‘Daddy, can I ride Aggie?’

Daddy looks at me sharply. ‘No, you may not. Horses are very dangerous animals. One bite can take your finger off, one kick can kill you. If you’re not a stockman or a grazier or a jockey, you’ve got no business riding a horse.’

‘But Aggie’s a nice horse. He wouldn’t bite me or kick me.’

Daddy takes my hand and leads me down the hill back toward the house. ‘Poss, any horse can bite or kick. It’s their nature.’

Ernie follows behind us, grumbling about how he thinks he’s got a leech in his boot.