Riggs Crossing (17 page)

Chapter 43

I get a break from my lessons the same time as school holidays.

Miss Dunn went to Melbourne to visit her family. She sent me a postcard with a picture of a tram on it.

I’m lying in bed trying to figure out what to do with myself. I look at the clock radio. Nine-thirty and I can already tell it’s going to be a stinking hot day. I can hear the cleaners downstairs; I’d better take a shower before they want to start on the bathroom. I grab my robe and bag with all my toiletries and head down the hall.

Once I get back to my room, I throw some clothes on and pack an extra T-shirt in my backpack, because I know I’ll sweat through the first one. I don’t like walking around feeling sweaty and stinky. Before I learned to keep my mouth shut, I mentioned this to Lyyssa in a counselling session. She got all excited and started talking about obsessive-compulsive disorder. What’s obsessive or compulsive about not wanting to smell bad?

I decide to go up to University Road and have a look through that huge bookstore, then maybe catch a bus into the city and see the Opera House, or even go over the Harbour Bridge. I know there are posh neighbourhoods on the north side of the bridge, but aside from that, I don’t really know much about what’s on the other side of the harbour, except for the zoo.

I stop into the kitchen for a quick glass of orange juice. Major Heath is in the lounge room, reading a story to Karen and Shane. Lyyssa is on the phone, so I write ‘going for a walk – back before dinner’ on the whiteboard and scoot out the door.

Our street is shaded by trees, so the heat isn’t so bad until I come to Canterbury Road, where I have to walk with the sun burning a hole in the top of my head. I won’t wear a hat – not after that day at the zoo. I put on sunscreen before I left the Refuge. When I reach Enmore Road, it’s not so bad, because there are shops with awnings that block out the sun.

Once again, I’ve managed to get myself onto University Road without a bottle of water. That means that I have to buy one, for sixty cents more than I normally pay, at the 7-Eleven.

I’ve just about made it to the refrigerators at the back of the store when that shrill beep announces that someone has come through the door. ‘Packet’a Winnie Reds, thanks.’

Small bottle of Johnny Walker Red, thanks.

Daddy isn’t here to tell me to stay where I am and not move. I turn and walk back toward that voice that I remember.

He’s still got a blond mullet, and still wears acid-wash jeans. It’s hot, so he’s wearing a singlet, not a flannelette shirt like he was the day Daddy gave him a hiding in the bottle shop. Terry.

I feel kind of numb and sick, so I’m not really looking where I’m going. I bump against a rack stocked with potato chips, and one of the bags makes a crunching, crackly sound.
Hey, mind the stock!

Terry looks toward the noise and sees me. He’s reaching for his wallet, and stops, his hand frozen an inch away from his back pocket. His usual facial expression used to reflect a weird combination of slyness and stupidity. Not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but cunning as a rat, was how Daddy described him. Now, Terry’s face is leaner, harder, meaner.

‘Your pack-et of Win-fields, sir,’ the Indian clerk says, sounding slightly alarmed. God knows why. Terry’s just standing there, staring at me. Surely the Indian clerk sees far weirder behaviour like that, running a shop on University Road. Once, I saw a man shuffling down University Road with no pants on, not even any underpants.

Terry stares at me for a fraction of a second more, then snaps out of it. ‘Yeah, thanks.’ He pushes a twenty across the counter, takes the smokes and his change, and walks out of the store too fast. He’s itching to look at me again, but doesn’t.

I turn around and get my bottle of Mount Franklin, then take my time pretending to scan the covers of the magazines before going to pay. ‘And how are you to-day, miss?’ the Indian clerk beams. He obviously hasn’t made any connection between me and Terry. I tell him I’m fine, we talk a little about the weather, then I leave the store. I look up and down the street, but see no trace of Terry. Just to be on the safe side, I cross the street and hop on a bus bound for Leichhardt, to throw Terry off my trail just in case he’s watching me from someplace I can’t see.

I get off at Norton Street. I’m confident that no one’s following me, so I start to relax. Across the street, there’s a place selling gelato, so I go over and get a double scoop of Vanilla Bean. Walking while you’re eating is kind of tacky, but you see people doing it all the time, so it mustn’t really matter. I walk down Norton Street, eating my gelato and looking at the restaurants and bookstores and coffee shops.

There’s a cinema where they’re having an Italian movie festival. Two very pretty dark-haired girls are talking to the ticket seller. ‘But we’re with our aunt!’ one of them says, protesting. A middle-aged woman in an expensive-looking dress and high-heeled shoes is standing behind them. She’s wearing sunglasses with heavy gold trim and carrying a Louis Vuitton handbag. Her hair doesn’t move – it’s been teased and sprayed.

‘All the films have R-ratings,’ a voice says from behind the Plexiglas.

The girls turn back to their aunt in disappointment. ‘They won’t let us in ’cause we’re only sixteen.’ Their aunt murmurs something and the three of them walk off.

I cross the street and look into the window of a shop that sells shoes imported from Spain. There are three pairs of black riding boots in the window.

I’m walking away from the shop imagining myself in black tall boots, teamed with tan jodhpurs and a black velvet riding coat, when I see something wrong, someone out of place, someone who drags me back into my dreary everyday life. It’s Lyyssa, sitting at one of the outside tables at a café.

Lyyssa has on a lightweight purple blazer with shoulder pads over a scoop-neck T-shirt. She’s pulled back her hair into an unsuccessful chignon that looks as if it might come loose at any moment. She’s sipping a cappuccino or something, darting her eyes from side to side, self-conscious at being alone in the midst of chic-looking couples. Then she very discreetly checks her watch. Looks like Lyyssa has been stood up by Dickhead Daniel.

Fortunately, a waiter comes to Lyyssa’s table, blocking her view of the footpath. I pick up the pace and walk as fast as I can to Parramatta Road, and hop on the first bus that comes without looking to see where it’s bound.

Parramatta Road is kind of weird. On the bus, an illogical stream of businesses flashes past. Bridal couture, kitchen supplies, pine furniture, fireplace grates, pole-dancing lessons, outdoor equipment, McDonald’s, car radios, more pine furniture. If you go far enough, you go past the morgue. I ride the bus for a few minutes, then get off at a servo near the Irregular Jeans Warehouse, one of the places Lyyssa or Major Heath takes us when we need new clothes.

I cross the road to Australia Street. There’s a car lot on the corner with huge banners announcing the prices of cars: $39,990. Some people wouldn’t make that much in a year.

It’s a long walk up Australia Street. Most of the houses are nice terraces that have been renovated, although a few have peeling paint or a front garden choked with weeds. About halfway to University Road, I see a little white car come to a stop and a very large redheaded lady struggle out. Her face is flushed and her mouth is tight with anger. ‘Ruby, get out of the car!’ she shouts.

The door on the passenger side opens and a fat redheaded girl gets out. Her red hair is long, carrot-coloured and curly, not short and auburn like her mother’s. She looks a couple of years younger than me, but she’s crying like a baby, tears rolling down her chubby cheeks. ‘Muuummeee!’ Ruby wails. ‘You PROMISED to buy me tap shoes today! I’ll NEVER grow up to be a dancer if you won’t buy me tap shoes! Annhhh-hanh-hanh-hanh!’ she sobs.

Tap shoes? Did I hear that right? How could that blimp of a kid tap dance? She’d look like a dancing hippo.

A rush of angry embarrassment comes over me as I remember that a fortnight ago at Llewellyn’s, I was fantasising about being a ballet dancer in a Colette Dinnigan tutu. And that an hour ago I was fantasising about being a tall, elegant dressage competitor in jodhpurs and expensive boots. It isn’t fair that Fat Ruby has a better chance of getting the tap shoes she wants than I have of getting those riding boots. Or a Colette Dinnigan tutu.

‘We’re not buying anything today!’ her mother barks. She’s having trouble breathing. ‘Now come help me with these groceries!’

‘I’m not helping you do anything today!’ Ruby shrieks, loud enough for the whole street to hear her. She runs across the street and waits by the front door, blubbering angrily. It’s one of the houses on the street that hasn’t been renovated. They’ve got two garbage bins in their front garden, a letterbox painted a faded red, and a mountain of junk hiding the two front windows. There’s a broken pram, a broken desk, a broken chair, two broken lamps, a rusty child’s bicycle with flat tyres and a deflated basketball. There’s also some trash that passersby have thrown there – styrofoam coffee cups, Macca’s wrappers, junk mail – that they haven’t bothered to pick up.

‘Ruby!’ the woman yells, puffing for breath. ‘Come help me!’

Ruby slides down the door and collapses onto the front step, her mouth open in a grotesque scream. ‘NOOO!’ she bawls.

That kid needs a boot up the arse so hard, she doesn’t hit the ground till Armidale, I can hear Daddy say.

Ruby’s mother mutters something under her breath, opens the little car’s back hatch, and lifts the plastic bags out. She waddles across the street, gasping for breath. ‘Ruby, at least use your key and open the door for me!’

‘I’m not doing anything for you because you’re so MEEEAN!’ Ruby screeches.

I can’t watch any more of this real-life icky TV show without stopping and staring, so I keep walking. Is this the way ‘normal’ people live? Awful Ruby and her mother living in a house where the garden is filled with junk. Is there a Mr FatGuts? Does he have red hair, too?

Ruby is still wailing and her mother is still yelling at her when I reach the corner, where three council workers have set up some orange witch’s hats around a big hole they’ve broken through the concrete. Two of the council workers are looking at Ruby’s mother.

‘Jeezuuus,’ one of them says. ‘How’d you like to have to climb aboard that?’

Climb aboard.
It takes me a minute to work out what he means. Going down the street, I start to notice the bright pink fliers stuffed into all the mailboxes. I know it’s illegal to look in someone else’s mailbox, but fortunately one of those pink flyers has been dropped on the footpath. I pick it up.

LOSE TWENTY KILOS A MONTH!

Tried fad diets?

Tried exercise?

Tried every weight loss pill on the market?

Stop suffering and start living!

Marcia Moore’s patented program combines

sensible eating with light exercise and one delicious

lo-cal shake per day.

Results guaranteed! First week free!

There’s a mobile and a landline phone number given.

I look up and down the street. There are no bright pink flyers in the mailboxes on the opposite side of the street. It looks like whoever was stuffing these flyers into the mailboxes ran out or just got lazy. That means Ruby and her mother didn’t get one, which is really unfair. They probably need it more than anybody else on this street.

I turn around and go back toward Ruby’s house. The construction workers have gone. If Ruby’s mother signs up for this diet program and it works, people will stop making nasty jokes about ‘climbing aboard’. And if it works for Ruby, nobody at school will rag on her for being a fat chick.

I don’t think I’ll try it, though. It would cost too much money. Also, I’m not really fat, I’m a mesomorph. The physiotherapist said so.

I cross the street to Ruby and her mother’s house, carefully fold the flyer in half, and slip it into the red mailbox. Feeling pleased with myself, I head back up the street. I don’t get as far as the corner before a shout stops me dead in my tracks.

‘HEY!’

I slowly turn around. It’s Ruby’s mother, clutching the pink weight-loss flyer. Her face has turned the same shade of bright pink as the flyer.

‘YOU COME BACK HERE THIS INSTANT!’

I can’t move.

Ruby’s mother takes a deep breath and lowers her voice. ‘Would you please come here. I’d like to have a word with you.’ A tear rolls down the side of her face.

I slowly walk toward her.

Ruby’s mother and I stand looking at each other and now she’s really crying. ‘I won’t ask you inside,’ she says hoarsely. ‘A girl your age shouldn’t go into a stranger’s house. I’ve warned my daughter never to go off with someone she doesn’t know.’

She motions me toward one of the two camp chairs that are sitting to one side of the pile of broken-down junk. We sit down. I have no idea what’s coming next.

‘I saw you watching us when Ruby and I came home,’ she says, a little calmer.

I am
so
busted.

‘I suppose you’re the perfect daughter? You’ve never misbehaved, never given your parents any trouble?’

Daddy would have booted me up the backside if I had. I shrug and look down.

‘Never been rude?’

Rude.
I don’t have an answer for that one.

Ruby’s mother looks at the weight-loss flyer. ‘Putting this . . .
thing
in my mailbox was really rude. Why did you do it?’

I mumble something about how her side of the street didn’t get any.

Ruby’s mother crumples the flyer, throws it into the rubbish heap. It lands on the seat of the broken pram. Ruby’s mother sighs. ‘I’ve tried every weight-loss programme there is. The fact is, some people are born fat and there’s nothing they can do about it. My parents were both overweight. So were three of my grandparents. There wasn’t much chance of me or my daughter turning out like Kate Moss. And in any case, it’s
none of your business.
How would you like it if a girl at school was mean to you because she’s skinny and you’re not?’