Another Night in Mullet Town Read online

  I offer him the Weet-Bix

  as if it’s enough to get him

  across the Hay Plain.

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Steel girders, west,

  bottles of wine, east,’ he says.

  ‘And a chance to get drunk

  in the middle of nowhere,’ I joke.

  Dad smiles, reaching for the pan.

  ‘Scrambled eggs, buttered toast

  and the risk of a heart attack,’ he says.

  ‘What do you think about out there?’ I ask.

  I imagine Dad driving the rig across the plain,

  a storm cloud on the horizon,

  flocks of cockatoos in the fields,

  music on the stereo.

  ‘Whether the bloke driving towards me

  is about to fall asleep,’ Dad replies.

  He stirs the egg mixture with a fork

  and pours it into the frypan.

  ‘And how many miles

  before I pay off the truck,’ he adds.

  ‘I could get a job over the holidays,’ I say.

  Dad slides the spatula under the mixture,

  flipping it before lifting the pan away

  from the heat.

  He tips the eggs on toast

  and pulls back the chair before sitting.

  I pass him the salt

  and he smiles.

  ‘Work is forever,’ he says.

  ‘Enjoy school while it lasts.’

  The endless highway

  I promise Dad I’ll do the dishes

  before Mum wakes.

  He returns the egg carton to the fridge,

  then leans down

  and kisses me on the cheek.

  His stubble grazes my skin.

  I try to remember

  how long it’s been

  since he’s done that.

  ‘Go easy on your mum today,’ he says.

  He doesn’t meet my eyes

  before walking from the kitchen,

  a duffel bag

  slung over his shoulder.

  I jump up from the table

  and, at the window,

  watch him wheel his pushbike

  out of the shed

  into the weak sunlight.

  He checks both tyres

  before throwing his leg

  over the seat

  and pedalling down the driveway.

  I don’t know why,

  but I rush through the house

  to watch him

  turn onto the road

  without checking for cars,

  knowing that no-one is stupid enough

  to be awake this early.

  I imagine the smell of the sea

  filling his nostrils

  before he rides towards the workshop

  to exchange a bicycle

  for a lonely truck cabin

  on the endless highway.

  Balarang Bay

  Whenever I miss the bus to school –

  like today –

  I ride my bike along Lake Road,

  around Coraki Lake,

  past Tipping Point

  and into Morawa National Park.

  I ignore the sign that reads:

  HORSES AND BICYCLES PROHIBITED

  and follow the track

  watching for snakes

  and swooping magpies.

  I make it to school before the bell

  if I pedal like a crazy

  and forget the brakes

  on the long downhill into town

  past the billboard of bikini models

  trumpeting:

  WELCOME TO BALARANG BAY

  MILES OF SMILES.

  Balarang is Aboriginal for

  ‘place of the swamp oak’

  but the council

  didn’t want to put ‘swamp’

  on the billboard,

  so they chose bikini models instead.

  They paid an advertising company

  a truckload of cash

  to come up with

  MILES OF SMILES.

  Manx and I would have

  accepted much less

  and been closer to the truth with:

  ACRES OF FAKERS

  and the by-line:

  WHERE THE UTE MEETS

  THE MOBILITY SCOOTER.

  Manx told me he’s planning

  on getting a spray can from the local hardware

  to do some creative dental work

  on the models in the billboard

  to show his civic pride.

  My school

  My school is surrounded

  by a wire fence

  and a stand of stringybark

  that the council

  is debating whether to rezone

  for a new housing estate.

  Each morning the buses bring

  the hippie kids from the hinterland

  and us southerners from Turon

  into the main car park,

  already filled with four-wheel drives

  dropping off the locals

  too lazy to walk.

  Mr Drake, our Science teacher,

  is on uniform duty

  at the front gate

  telling boys to tuck in their shirts

  and girls to remove their lipstick.

  The first rubbish bin

  in the schoolyard

  is decorated with red-lipped tissues.

  I whizz past him on the bike

  and he tells me to stop

  and strap my helmet on properly.

  Rachel walks through the gate

  wearing a pair of trousers

  instead of the tartan skirt.

  When Mr Drake stops her,

  she says,

  ‘Girls are the equal of boys

  and should wear the same uniform.’

  He says, ‘Well, you won’t be allowed to class

  wearing trousers.’

  Rachel winks at me,

  turns to Mr Drake

  and, in front of everyone,

  drops her trousers

  to reveal her skirt underneath.

  She hands Mr Drake the trousers

  as the bell rings

  and we all cheer

  as Rachel strolls to class.

  The only one that matters

  I refuse to tell anyone –

  even Manx –

  just how much I like Ella Hurst.

  Every period in Science

  and English

  I alternate between analysing the whiteboard

  and Ella’s long dark hair.

  If there were a grade

  for knowing the curve of her shoulders

  and the grace of her hips

  I’d get an A plus.

  Sometimes I miss the teacher’s question

  and I’m sure my furtive glances

  betray my thoughts.

  Everyone likes Ella,

  from the cool girls to the geeks,

  yet she spends most of her time alone

  reading a book

  or watching the lunchtime football.

  I’d have as much chance of scoring a goal

  on the school oval

  as I’d have of working up the courage

  to talk to her.

  How can it be

  that the companion of attraction

  is fear?

  No matter how many words

  there are in the English language for shy,

  the only one that matters is

  Jonah.

  Caveman at the bottle shop

  It’s Friday afternoon and

  Angelo, who’s in year ten with us,

  collects money from

  a bunch of his mates.

  Rich-boy Patrick

  who lives at Tipping Point

  doubles the stash.

  Angelo presses the bills

  into Manx’s oversized hand

  and says, ‘As much beer as you can buy
.’

  Manx is kitted out in a day-glo workers vest,

  school shorts and his father’s spare boots.

  I reckon he’s even smudged

  some dirt on his forearms

  just to complete the picture.

  He walks like a draught-horse pulling a load,

  his head pushed forward, chin up

  and muscular arms hanging by his side.

  His voice is a few octaves deeper than bass,

  hands the size of boxing gloves,

  dark hair sprouting from each of his knuckles.

  The boys call Manx a caveman,

  but never to his face.

  Angelo calls out, ‘The cheapest, okay,’

  as Manx turns and strolls into the bottle shop.

  I follow him

  and walk to where my favourite beer

  sits in artfully arranged slabs.

  I tap the carton three times and walk out.

  Manx sees my choice –

  it’s not the cheapest.

  Manx takes a cut of two bottles per dozen.

  He always shares with me.

  The latest model

  For a while after we started high school

  Angelo and I were friends.

  He’d sit beside me and Manx on the bus

  and tell us

  about the caravan his parents

  had set up in his backyard

  and how on the weekend

  they’d let him sleep out there.

  He’d stay up as late as he liked

  and watch things he shouldn’t

  on the laptop,

  the caravan door locked tight.

  ‘I told them it was quieter in the van,

  so I could do my homework.’

  He’d lean over and dig me in the ribs.

  ‘I sure learnt a lot, Jonah.’

  He’d invite me to sleep over

  and, no matter how many times

  I asked Mum, she’d say,

  ‘I don’t trust that boy.’

  One day Angelo came to school

  with a black eye

  and, when I asked him

  what happened,

  he mumbled about the caravan door

  opening in the wind.

  On the way home

  he sat next to someone else on the bus

  and told them he had a Nintendo –

  the latest model.

  He asked them if they wanted to visit

  and never invited me over again.

  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 foot
ball 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,