Tree Palace (16 page)

All ready to go. It was a three-minute walk to the supermarket. No decision was made about taking Mathew until the final minute. Midge maintained his view that having a baby accompany them helped their purpose: it bespoke maturity and a solid anchor. So Zara and Moira set off, baby in tow, and the boys took over the room for their showers.

The interview was held in the storeroom to the side of the meat and dairy section, amid cardboard boxes crushed and tied with tape for recycling. Mr Dixchit sat at a small foldout table. He wore the longest shirt they’d ever seen on a man. More tan nightgown than anything, way over his knees. He had on matching trousers and black sandals.

The whirr of the chillers was such that voices needed to be raised to be heard. This posed a problem for Zara because of the age issue. There were three other girls waiting to be interviewed. She knew them from school, not to speak to, but by sight. They were two years above her and from good families and would never give a trant the time of day. They might speak up if hearing her lie about her age. Let them go ahead in the line, Moira suggested. That way we’ll have the last word and not have them listening.

When Zara’s turn came it was Moira who did the talking. Mr Dixchit tried addressing Zara directly but Moira was nervous and couldn’t help herself—she became a proxy Zara: Oh yes, the girl is a very honest young lady. That’s the one thing she’s had drilled into her—honesty. And hard work. And cleanliness. I had the pleasure of meeting your good wife the other day and I said to Zara there’s a woman after our own heart: clean and well spoken. I can see you’re the same, sir. It’s written all over you.

He took the résumé and put it on the table, hardly reading it. He was more interested in viewing a school report, if they had one. A scholastic summary, in his view, was most valuable.

‘Ah.’ Moira sighed. She put her cunning hat on and touched Zara’s shoulder and said, ‘I knew we should of brought that. It’s my fault, I’m sorry, Mr Dixchit. I thought to myself, they don’t tell you much these days in school reports. Better to meet the person in person.’

To impress upon him Zara’s cleverness she suggested he test her with a maths question. How much change from twenty dollars on a six-dollar purchase, that sort of thing. There was no need for that, he said. The tills perform such equations themselves.

It was clear he was not interested. ‘Thank you for coming. I will telephone if we require Zara’s services.’

‘We’re not connected up at the moment. We’ve been travelling, you see. When I say travelling, I mean for my husband’s work. He’s in antiques.’

He had paid no attention to the pram, as if presuming the baby was Moira’s. She put her arm around Zara and had her step closer to the pram.

‘In case you’re wondering, the baby’s Zara’s. Isn’t he, sweetie? His name’s Mathew. You’ve never seen a girl blossom like Zara has now she’s a mum. It’s like she’s leaps and bounds maturer in herself. Aren’t you, sweetie?’

Mr Dixchit pushed back his chair to stand and conclude the interview.

It was here that a risk must be taken, Moira decided. ‘The other girls you’ve interviewed, I’m sure they’re very nice girls.’

She went up to him and spoke softer and quicker to create a confidential air.

‘Nice on the surface, anyway. I hate to bad-mouth people. But sometimes it’s part of doing right by someone like yourself. Truth is, they say things behind your back. Bad things.
Curry muncher
this and
curry muncher
that. Nasty. They were saying it just now while they were waiting their turn. Weren’t they, Zara? It’s the way some people are. You think they come from decent families and then they start bad-mouthing. If my Zara did that I’d clip her one, Mr Dixchit. I wouldn’t stand for that kind of talk.’

‘Thank you for coming,’ Mr Dixchit replied. He had a face Moira couldn’t read, stare as she might. Hardly a wrinkle in his brow to show his feelings. A black moustache so thick it covered any grimace of his lips. He’s cool, this one, she thought. You can’t put a thing over these Indians. She wanted to resent him but hadn’t given up just yet.

‘Mr Dixchit. Whatever you’d be paying, Zara will work for two-thirds, won’t you, sweetie?’

Zara nodded.

‘Oh no,’ he shook his head. ‘There are rules about that, I’m afraid.’

‘Forget the rules. Let’s do it all cash for two-thirds of what you’d pay those others. No one needs to know.’

‘I am sorry.’

‘Two-thirds.’

‘I cannot do that.’

‘Half, then.’

‘Half?’ His moustache stretched cheerfully and showed his front teeth. ‘You are quite something, but no.’

‘Half. In cash. Off the records.’

His moustache returned to normal. He sat down at the table, knocking its flimsy legs with his knees. He looked over at Zara. ‘What do you say?’

‘She says—’

‘I wish to hear it from her.’

Zara put a finger to her mouth to bite its nail nervously but whipped it away, back to her side. ‘Yes, please.’

‘With a baby, you would not be available very much.’

‘She will. I like to do the honours with Mathew, you see.’

‘Available seven days would be of benefit to me.’

‘She could be available seven days.’

‘In my experience, with arrangements that are off the books, the important thing is…’ He put his finger to his moustache to indicate discretion.

Moira responded with her finger on her lips. She pulled an imaginary zip across her mouth.

The world was giving her its full attention again. Granting her wishes and attending to her needs. She daren’t scare it off by saying thank you too much. It might consider its job done and move on to others. Stay with me, she wanted to say, but it might turn on her for being so greedy. Better to keep her head down and believe the generous world was watching and taking pleasure in her pleasure and pride in her success. Admiring her for heading back to the motel not boastful but speechless with a straight-backed dignity. No smug smile, just the sweet knowledge in herself that she had done well.

Besides, to celebrate too much was likely to get on Shane’s nerves. She let him take a measure of credit for the triumph.

‘Cash, Moira. What did I tell you? Cash. Gets ’em every time.’

Midge suggested they buy fish and chips. And cold beers and take them home and sit under the chandelier. They each took a last turn using the motel toilet and washbasin. Drinking cool tap water and drying their hands on white towels.

18

The fish and chips were soggy so they ate the chips while driving along before they turned to mush. Shane sipped a beer and passed it to the back seat for Rory to share now that he was a working man.

‘Cash. I wouldn’t do business any other way. Know what I think I’ll do? Think I’ll take my load and become my
own
middle man, Rory.’

The more beer he swigged the more his opinion of his prospects rose. ‘You can’t rely on the Alfies of this world. You got to be your own middle man. That’s the future.’

They saved their fish pieces for reheating over the cooker for dinner. Shane wanted to take the chandelier down because of the ‘dog’s balls factor’. He agreed to extend the treat for one more night, given the special occasion. He congratulated Zara, grudgingly. ‘Good for you,’ he said, then returned to his own plans. ‘This Alfie letting me down, it’s the best thing that’s happened to me.’

Zara drank two beers and it made her garrulous and giggly. She’d be getting a free blue smock and a nametag, she said. She repeated herself and Moira said, ‘We know, sweetie. You’ve told us. We heard.’

As for getting her to work, Shane recommended bike riding. ‘I can’t have the wag tied up ferrying you in and out. When you’re your own middle man you do double the driving.’

He said she owed it to the household to pinch things. A few items here and there.

When the beer was finished Shane moved on to bourbon. The reheated fish had rubbery batter but he couldn’t care. Darkness didn’t fall so much as rise to the stars and shimmer there. The chandelier flecked the ground where they sat like a shabby picnic party with crickets for their music, playing the one note, the only tune crickets know.

‘A tree palace,’ Shane said with a dreamy slurring.

‘What’d you say?’ asked Moira.

‘What?’

‘What you just said.’

‘A tree palace?’

‘That’s perfect. That’s what we’ll name this place. Tree Palace.’

‘That’s great,’ Midge said.

Rory and Zara agreed it was great too.

Shane reminded them that it was his idea. ‘I’m a poet and I didn’t know it.’

Moira slapped the ground. ‘Done, then. Tree Palace.’

Midge decided to stay out under the tree for the night—he spread a jacket for a mattress and slept. Rory sneaked sips of Shane’s drink and took himself, dizzy, to the caravan. Zara was so happy she needed to lie down in her tent because her legs had gone on her. That meant Shane and Moira were as good as alone together. There was Mathew but Shane had got used to him: the kid had his noisy moments but he slept as good as invisible.

‘Come on, Shane. Let’s go to bed,’ Moira said.

Shane’s eyes were shiny, his cheeks red. He was grinning, staring at the chandelier, more through it than observing its puppet light. ‘Eh? What ya say?’

‘Come on.’

She took his hand and made him stand and walk with her.

They didn’t kiss much these days. Kiss in the proper way, with lips parted and a tongue on the tip of the other’s tongue. Tonight they did and they pushed the bedroom door as closed as it would go. Shane’s optimism wasn’t faltering and he danced a few steps and slipped his hands inside Moira’s panties. He held on to her buttocks and kissed and lifted her. He undid his trousers. Moira helped peel off his T-shirt. He helped her with her bra, in a hurry to lay her back. Too much of a hurry for her. That kissing was so wonderful. It made the smell of drink and smoke have no smell and the spit inside their mouths be as smooth as oil.

His habit was to pull himself out of her—pill or no pill he was always careful. Tonight she thought he was about to stay in. He held himself longer and it surprised her and she held him there, her knees pressing with the thrill of it. Then he bucked out as usual, even though she held him tight between her knees. He fell asleep that way, in his own mess, in the fork of her. She forgave him. When she tipped him off she tipped him gently so he wouldn’t wake.

The trouble with sleep, she thought, was that a lucky day like this came to an end. She tried to keep awake. Mathew helped her. Then he took his feed and slept and Moira had no energy left and gave in.

She opened one eye and saw it was dark, everything still and silent. The kind of silence so pure that the air had an electric sound, a buzzing far off: the plains running their deep-buried engines of clay and stone. She closed her eye, listening.

A few hours later she did the honours with Mathew and walked him around the L-shape and he soon was asleep again. Shane turned on his back and snored. She pushed his shoulder and he coughed and sighed and snored more quietly. She could no longer hear that comforting earth-engine but she slept anyway.

Limpy’s yap had such a shrill pitch she mistook it for birdsong. She tried not to be woken, her arm across her eyes to put off daylight. The yapping persisted. There was snarling to it. ‘Shut up,’ she called. She moved her arm from her eyes to her ears. ‘Shut up.’ The dog wouldn’t stop. She got up to throw a shoe at him. The glare was fierce and she blinked to make the day visible.

A police car was driving up to the L-shape, veering at speed between ironbarks. A second car behind it had stopped down by the garage.

‘Shane,’ she yelled.

Two officers got out of the second car—the young blond fellow, Dench. And a woman who looked like a skinny man in her blue uniform, with her stomping, arms-out gait.

‘Shane. Shane.’

Fowler got out of the first car on the passenger side and an officer about the same age and size got out of the driver’s. Moira ran into the bedroom and slapped Shane on his rump and pulled the sheet from him. Then threw the sheet back on him because he was naked. She put on her frock but didn’t have time to zip it before Fowler had stepped through the door. He held up a forefinger and stood there, pointing. ‘I want no trouble. You do as you’re told.’

‘There’s two in here,’ he called out. ‘The Shane guy and his missus.’

Shane leapt from bed, wrapping the sheet around him and shaking his head for better comprehension. ‘What the fuck’s this?’

‘You sit on that bed, mate. I want no trouble out of you. Missus, can you shut that bloody dog up.’

Moira ignored him. In the pram beside the bed Mathew was beginning to cry. She picked him up and whispered hush.

‘Where you keep everything?’ said Fowler. ‘Where’s all this heritage stuff kept?’

‘Give us a minute. Jesus. I’m just waking up.’

Fowler called out, ‘Search everything.’

Midge could be heard complaining, ‘Fair go. Easy does it.’ Through the glad-wrap window Moira saw him in his underwear, holding out his hands in waving surrender. Rory was in his underwear and bouncing on his toes, swearing
fuck
and
arsehole.

‘Rory, stop that,’ she called, shouldering past Fowler. ‘Take Limpy and quieten him. And don’t
bounce.
How many times I got to say.’

There was a scream: Zara in the tent.

Fowler put his hand on the doorjamb and leant out to direct proceedings. ‘What’s your name again?’ he said to Midge. He snapped his fingers. ‘I want you to tell us where you hide things. Hurry up.’

‘What you talking about?’

‘I’ll tell you all that,’ Shane said. ‘No need to hassle him. He’s not involved. No one’s involved but me.’

They were made to stand together in the L-shape. Zara was allowed to grab her dressing gown but the rest couldn’t dress until a search was done. What Fowler called ‘a precautionary poke around the dwellings’.

Shane was kept in bare feet and a sheet. Even when he led them to the shed he was made to walk without shoes and clothes. He complained the stones were hurting him. He was told to keep moving and not moan so much. At the shed he asked if he could go to the toilet. He was told to hold on to his bladder and tell them what in the shed came from where. When he hesitated, wondering if it was too late to play dumb, Fowler threatened to have all the family arrested and charged. Shane promised he was the only one involved. Midge had a buggered hip, he said. Poor bastard can hardly get out of bed. As for the missus, she was a homebody. Too scared off by all that licence business to say boo, let alone know anything about heritage. The other two are just children and the baby’s a baby.