Tree Palace (25 page)

He grumbled to Moira that he didn’t want to think about dinner. Stockpot, spaghetti, it was all rubbish to him. She could go feed Mathew off her titties and let everyone else starve. ‘I won’t eat food from a trant with no fucking loyalty. If I want food I’ll drive to town.’ He looked at the tree where the chandelier had hung and he pointed. ‘That’s what that tree needs, another chandelier. I’ll fucking well find one. Pinch one somewhere. Got to be chandeliers worth pinching in Barleyville.’

She was frightened for him, stumbling about and angry. The kind of Midge that Midge really wasn’t. If he tripped he might do damage to himself and she’d be more than on the outer then. She’d be to blame for driving him to the bottle. She wanted to be the Moira she was once in his eyes. The Moira you respected and didn’t swear in front of, as he was swearing now, or ever doubt was on your side. The way to do it was say they’d visit Shane. That’d calm Midge and start to win his trust back.

Moira put Mathew on the big bed to sleep and went to the chandelier tree. She stood beside Midge but he moved away from her. ‘I want to visit Shane,’ she said. ‘I miss my Shane. Let’s visit him. What’s tomorrow? Sunday? Sunday’s a visitor day.’

He grunted and shook his head. He farted and there was a wet sound to it.

‘I think you might have done something in your pants,’ she said.

His lips were puckered in sulky resentment of her. The chandelier tree was alive with breeze and leaf-chatter. He sought his companionship there and not with her. He didn’t speak. Keeping his head tilted back to regard the tree made him dizzy but he fought against it for the sake of ignoring Moira.

‘You better take your pants off and I’ll wash them. Come on. Have a shower and I’ll do the on-off for you. Come on. Or else you’ll stink and your pants’ll stick to you.’

‘Let ’em stick.’

‘You want to visit Shane.’

‘Course I do.’

‘Well, if I wash your pants you’ll have clean pants for the visit. Come on, stop drinking or else you’ll be hungover for days. I know you. You’ll be laying about and groaning. In no shape to drive the wag and visit.’

She went to him and tugged on his collar. He pulled away and kept puckering and not looking at her. Then he nodded as if the tree had said something and he agreed with what was said. He farted again and that too had a wet sound to it. He said ‘whoops’ to the tree and shuffled his way to the toilet, keeping his legs tight together.

He was in the toilet for ages and when he emerged his face was grey and sweating. His belt was undone and he held his pants up and hobbled to the shower. There he took off his pants and threw them out for Moira to deal with. She did on-off duty until he yelled that he was done. She hosed his pants and soaked them in a bucket. Midge’s insides were completely emptied out and his head was fog-tired from drink. He still wasn’t speaking to Moira, though not for the sake of being rude to her so much as from the fogging spreading to his tongue.

He got into bed with his damp towel around him, his back not dry. It was late afternoon and the daylight was not yet dimming but he was asleep in seconds, snoring louder than his normal loud. Rory tried closing his mouth by tapping his jaw shut. It flopped open straight away. A piece of masking tape might work, attaching the jaw to the cheekbone. Moira said, Rory, we’re not taping up faces. Let him breathe and snore. Put toilet paper in your ears or go for a wander.

Midge didn’t wake when Zara’s phone rang and she took off for the crossroads in her going-out clothes and red bag, her shoes in her fingers. Moira watched her and said to herself,
Call to her
.
Call to her
. She said to Mathew, ‘I should call her in. I should show her the proper baby grip to lift you and hold you, keeping that wee neck of yours from bending.’ That would build a little bridge between them, she thought.

She couldn’t bring herself to do it. Zara was the crazy one. The girl couldn’t begin to feed a child, let alone set up house.

Rain was striding this way and that along the horizon, bendy stilts of it which the wind blew over. Back and forth went the showers, spraying the house and making the tank trickle with fresh filling. Perhaps the rain will make Zara turn around, Moira thought. It didn’t.

Dusk arrived darker than usual. No stars or moon standing by. Clouds kept tearing apart and drifting further apart. They looked soft that way, and fleeting. Then they joined back together and darkened at the centre. Rain fell hard and at no angle. Under the porch the lanterns rocked on their hooks, flames spluttering. Inside the house the flames stood straight and glowed.

Rory sat and ate and was quiet, for Rory. He had definitely taken a swig too many. You could see it in the high colour of his face. Moira told him that she didn’t blame him, she blamed Midge. She didn’t want an argument with the boy. He was her only friend other than Mathew at the moment. It was better to fuss over him and have him eat and off to bed. She gave him a brief talking-to about swigging from adult bottles. ‘You feeling sick?’

He shook his head.

He was feeling sick. His appetite was flagging; he was staring down at the table.

‘Let’s get you into bed.’

The boy said he was fine but let himself be led in Moira’s arms. They dashed across the L-shape in the dying rain. The clouds had opened and there was a flash of sun which caught on the blue caravan. It turned them blue and they laughed at their skin.

36

Moira scrubbed Midge’s pants in detergent, hosed them until they smelled better and hung them on the line. The legs moved back and forth in the airstream like empty walking. She pulled down on the cuffs to straighten out the creases and as she did she flinched at the sudden commotion of Limpy barking. He scrambled from under the house towards the dirt road. This must be Zara in her boyfriend’s car. Were they coming to lay out the plans for taking Mathew? She was not prepared for this, had no plans of her own for this confrontation.

It was not Zara. It was a green one-tonner, battered and squeaky. Jim Tubbs’s truck. You could hear his smithy tools clanging in the back. See the pointy, stumpy arm of an anvil strapped to the tray. His physical bulk was such that he took up half the cab; his huge head went right to the roof. He drove past the wag and the truck slid sideways in the slush. Stopped side-on as if about to turn around, then backed up to get the rear wheels onto firmer ground. He parked there and began the process of getting out, putting both hands on the door frame and heaving himself to his feet. He stretched, hands on hips, surveying the surroundings, reached into the tray and laid a cellophane wrap full of flowers across his arms. He crabbed his way across the slippery ground with Limpy taking lunges at his heels.

Moira thought of hiding behind the house. She would have if Mathew wasn’t inside by himself. Flowers? If Midge was awake he’d be sneering at her:
Flowers!
Tubbsy caught sight of her and waved. She held up her hand but didn’t wave.

He had a white short-sleeved shirt on, though his shoulders had been rained on and the material made transparent. You could see his shoulder hairs through it as he got closer to the porch. He’d recently shaved, going by the aftershave smell blowing off him.

‘Gidday, Moira,’ he said. ‘I was out this way and thought it’s time I dropped in.’

He looked about. ‘No Midge?’

‘He’s resting.’

‘Better be quiet, then.’ His big hands gripped the flowers and squashed the cellophane. ‘Thought I’d buy these for you. Brighten up the place.’

They were irises, their purple petals wilt-brown at the edges.

She took them and made sure not to admire them too much, though they were a pretty sight. ‘Ta.’

‘No worries.’ He blinked and nodded, clearly expecting an invitation inside. He kept looking down at her breast region. He tried to conceal that he was looking by scratching his forehead, but Moira saw and folded her arms.

‘How things going with Shane away?’ he said, ‘You coping good? Nothing you need?’

‘All’s going good, thanks, Tubbsy.’

He snapped his fingers. ‘Tell you what I got in the truck. Wait there, I’ll bring it.’

He went to the truck, almost falling backwards in the mud. He had his arms out tightrope-style for balance. He returned with a bottle. ‘Made this myself. My little homemade still. It’s a cross between a bourbon taste and I don’t know what. She’s got a fair kick.’

Moira realised he was not entirely sober. Steady enough on his feet but his speech was slurred. He looked at the sky and shook his head. ‘Might rain again. How about we get inside and have a shot of this.’

‘I got things to do, and I don’t drink at the moment.’

‘Ah, come on.’

‘If you want a drinking partner I’ll wake Midge up.’

‘Nah, not Midge. I’d rather drink with you.’

‘No, Tubbsy, can’t.’

‘After I bought those nice flowers and everything.’

‘I’ll wake Midge.’

‘All right, then, I’ll go.’

‘Okay.’

He didn’t move. ‘You don’t need nothing?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘Come on. One drink.’

‘No.’

He pulled the cork from the bottle, drank and puffed his cheeks in appreciation. ‘Oh, that is nice.’ He walked under the porch and sat on the sofa, cradling the bottle. ‘Come on, sit down with your old mate Tubbsy.’

‘I don’t feel like sitting.’

‘Come on.’

He drank from the bottle. He held it towards her.

She shook her head. ‘I said I’m not interested.’

He swore under his breath.

‘You have to mind your language around here.’

‘That’s right, you give yourself airs. I forgot.’

‘It’s just manners, that’s all.’

‘Get off your high horse, Moira. Fucking hell—you’re a trant, not a fucking schoolmarm.’

‘If that’s the way you feel then leave now. Go on.’

‘You don’t mean that.’

‘Leave or I’ll get Midge.’

Tubbsy laughed. ‘Midge? Now I’m frightened.’

‘I’m serious. Leave. Come back one day when Shane’s home and you’re not drunk.’

He stared at her. ‘What was all that about in town?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘You were pleased to see me then. All nice and chatty, all lit up in the face. All nice and wet down your front too. You were quite something.’

She folded her arms tighter.

‘Now all I get is a brush-off. Confuses a man, that does. Makes him confused and pissed off.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Oh, Moira, I got eyes. You know what I’m talking about. You’re a fine-looking woman. You’re still lit-up enough to suit me. I always fancied you. Always regretted the day I introduced you to Shane. Should have gone after you myself. I was being catered for in that department at the time. I’m not catered for now. And you’re not catered for at the moment neither. Come on, have a drink. Relax.’

‘No. Get out of here.’

She called out to Midge, and Tubbsy told her to shut up. He put his finger to his lips and whispered, ‘We don’t want no company, you and me. Have a drink. Jesus, you’re difficult.’

She could hear the baby starting his hiccup-tears. She took a stride towards the house. Tubbsy reached out and just missed grabbing her arm. She got through the door and tried closing it and sliding the bolt but he pushed the door open before the bolt could catch.

‘Get out,’ she yelled.

He thumped the bottle on the kitchen table and the weight of the blow shuddered the floor and made Limpy bark in a lower, more curdling register. The house was dusk-dim inside. Two lamps were going and Tubbsy waved for Moira to step nearer to them so he could see her better.

‘Come on, just light up for me again like you did in town. Just light up for me and let me have a feel of you.’

Moira shouted for him to get out.

‘Just a feel. Shane’ll never know.’

He lifted her dress with his left hand. She threw a punch and it skimmed his face but he didn’t flinch. He held his forearm up and deflected another punch, shoved her and held her against the wall. She bit his arm and scratched at his eyes but he didn’t care. He got his right hand down into her dress and onto her breast. She slid along the wall to stop him. She crossed her legs but his fingers started digging upwards past her underpants. It hurt and she squeezed her legs together against his hand and he pushed up harder.

Of a sudden he pulled his hand away and rolled across the floor swearing, both his hands clutching his thigh and his arse. Rory was standing there bouncing on his toes and panting, terrified, but not letting go of his throwing knives. He had one in each hand and no way was he letting go. He had them held up ready to stick into Tubbsy again.

Tubbsy rolled on his back from side to side and groaned. The only words he managed were ‘Jesus’ and ‘fuck’. He slid closer to the lamp glow to inspect himself. He felt his backside. There was a whimper of panic when he saw blood starting to leak through his fingers. The floor was getting smeared with it as he rolled in his own bleeding. He called Rory a ‘fucking little shit’ and kept wiping the blood with his fingers and looking at it, not believing it was his. ‘Look at that. Just look at that.’

He got to his feet, holding his backside with the blood dripping on the floor. His jeans were turning dark and wet. One stab mark at the top of his thigh had so torn the denim and his skin that a bubble of muscle had popped through. He walked, crouched over, watching his blood drip. He leant on the table and picked up his bottle and threw it, aiming at Rory, though it missed and smashed against the wall.

Moira took a swing at the back of Tubbsy’s head, yelling for him to get out of her house. His head was hard and hurt her knuckles but she hit him anyway.
Pig. Fat, ugly pig
.

Rory was ready to stab him again but Moira stopped him in case the mongrel died. Tubbsy muttered that he was not about to die. Not this way, he wasn’t. Not some shit of a kid doing this to him. He was going to get fixed up. And when he’d got fixed up he’d make every one of them pay. He’d make Rory pay most of all. Christ yes, that’s exactly what he’d do.

He lurched towards the door and slipped on his blood. Midge was coming through the door, only his towel around him. Tubbsy pushed him aside and Midge fell down, trying to stop the towel from splaying.