The Party Line (17 page)

She was to wait. That’s how it worked. The priest, wedged in his own box between two sinners, listening to the confession of the person on the other side of him. Joy was to wait patiently, quietly, reverently, reflecting on her own sins, while the other person confessed and listened and received their absolution.

She could hear the murmurs through the closed grille; the priest’s closest — his words almost audible. And the other murmur, on the far side. Nickie’s voice, no more than a whisper, sometimes not even that.

What was she saying? What
was
she saying? And how would this priest reply?

Her eyes still closed, Joy leaned forward. Taking care not to make a noise, she put her ear against the cool mesh on her side of the grille. She strained to listen to the gentle conversation.

She heard nothing.

Joy opened her eyes. The mesh, she saw, was coming away from
the opening in the bottom left-hand corner. On the other side of the mesh was the sliding panel. It was shut, protecting both the priest and the other confessor from an eavesdropper.

Joy slipped her finger under the ripped mesh. Holding her breath, she wedged her fingernail in the tiny space between the panel and its framework. She pushed, and the panel shifted.

Joy waited. Nothing happened on the other side. Just the slightest crack, that’s all she needed. Just the tiniest gap. She put her fingernail back in the space and pushed again. But this time it wouldn’t budge. It was either locked, or the priest was holding it shut.

It felt as though hours had passed since she’d entered the box. Joy closed her eyes again, rested her hands on the ledge, and waited. The murmuring continued — was it softer now? Joy wondered with detached interest whether her transgression — and it was, doubtlessly, a transgression — would bring His wrath down on her. Would she perhaps be struck, this very minute, with a heart attack, or a brain haemorrhage, or something equally damning? A part of her hoped so, hoped very much — but as she sat in the darkness it became clear that today was not The Day.

The other problem now, of course, was whether to confess about trying to open the hatch. It might have just been jammed, in which case Joy would be owning up to something for nothing. Amassing unnecessary penance. But what if the priest’s hand had been holding the panel shut, pushing gently against her fingernail? If he knew what she was up to, and she didn’t confess, she’d be in just as much trouble.

And then there was the sound of wood scraping wood, and a click, and the panel behind Joy’s grille was open. The priest’s face, side on, filled the grille’s rectangle like a picture in a frame. Joy inched her knees back so her face was not so close. Breathe. She had to breathe. When the priest had finished his prayer, she began.

‘Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been a week since my last confession.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘I’ve taken the Lord’s name in vain, and I’ve told lies to protect the feelings of others.’

‘Is that all?’

‘No. There’s another thing.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Someone in my family — one of my children — has … she’s fallen in with bad company. She’s spreading vicious and damaging stories about good people.’

‘Do you believe the stories? Are they true?’

‘I know they’re not true.’

‘These are her sins, not yours.’

‘But she’s my responsibility. As her mother, I’ve failed to stop her.’

‘Keep trying. Show her honesty through your own actions and words.’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Is that all?’

‘I think that’s all, Father.’

‘As penance, say two Our Fathers and three Hail Marys.’

‘Thank you, Father.’

‘And now, let’s hear an Act of Contrition.’

‘Oh my Lord, I am very sorry to have sinned against you. Because you are so good, I will not sin again.’

Larry and Vincent. They were leading like the champions they could never be. Joy leaned on the fence the Sunday night before Calf Club Day and watched as the girls groomed the animals’ lacklustre coats. The calves flinched, as if in pain, as the brushes skated down their protruding ribs like picks over guitar strings. Hair fell from their flanks, piling in tufts beneath the animals.

‘I tried to tell them they were no good, those calves,’ Josephine said. She’d joined Joy at the fence. ‘But you know what girls these days are like. Once they have their minds made up.’

Joy nodded, although she had no idea what girls these days were like. Not any more.

‘Actually, it’s that one. She’s the one that gives the orders round here now.’ Josephine nodded in Gabrielle’s direction.

Joy always found it hard to read Josephine’s face; her weathered
features locked in an emotionless arrangement, a contrast to the melody of her accented English. ‘What do you mean?’

‘That new one. She’s the boss. I hear them talk. Nickie’s under the thumb. Better keep an eye on that one.’

Josephine headed back into the cowshed. Joy returned her attention to the girls.

Gabrielle was directing Nickie around the calf-leading course they’d set up, calling out instructions on how Nickie should walk, straighten her back, hold her head, even showing her how to pause and smile at the invisible judges. Nickie complied with every order.

‘So what did you think of Larry, Mum? He’s so cute. I think the smallest ones are actually the cutest. When you get to know them, you know. Once you start looking after them, and they get used to you. The big calves don’t even feel like calves any more, they’re already like grown-up cows. They lose their cuteness really quickly, I think. If I was a judge, I’d go for the small calves even just because you know they’ve had a hard start to life …’

Gabrielle had left already and Nickie was on her bike, weaving in and out of the potholes in the road. She was riding with no hands. Her arms were out wide, as though she was flying.
Oh Wheel of Fortune
she sang.
Please
her flying hands came together in prayer
don’t pass
her finger wagged
me by
. Nickie finished the theatrics with a goodbye wave and a smile. Joy recognised the song from a show on TV, the young boy singer, David Curtis, had won the episode with the tune. Joy kept pace beside her.

‘They should have a special section for the small, sick calves. Mum … Mum? Don’t you reckon? It could be called The Bobby Section. Or The Survivor Section … Yeah, that would be the right name.’

Joy was fed up with Nickie’s moods — one minute vitriolic, the next euphoric. But right now, Joy was walking along the road, on a beautiful warm evening, with her daughter who was singing and saving the world one calf at a time; just a kid seeing how far she could ride her bike with no hands. Joy turned her face to the last of the warm sunshine. She was happy, too.

‘Larry’s got potential. That’s what I think,’ said Joy.

‘He’ll definitely get first prize for leading, I reckon. He’s the best leader ever. The best one I’ve ever had anyway. He complements me, and I complement him. That’s what Gabrielle says.’

Joy felt the warmth seep away.

‘We’ve got plans, you know. For Calf Club Day.’ Nickie was back in full flight.

A vehicle approached, Jack Gilbert’s truck. It swung to the far edge of the road and passed them slowly. Jack acknowledged them by lifting his finger off the wheel. He glanced at Joy but didn’t smile. Audrey was in the passenger’s seat, gazing out her window, looking at nothing on the other side of the road.

Nickie had wheeled her bike off the road, into the long grass. She sat astride it, her arms crossed. Joy watched as Nickie’s eyes stayed on the truck, staring at it as it shrunk in the distance. Nickie’s jaw was set hard.

Joy would have sworn Nickie’s mouth hadn’t opened, hadn’t moved. But somehow, through those clenched teeth, the word escaped. It sped through the warm, heavy evening air like a poison-tipped arrow.
Bastard
.

Nickie got back on the road and cycled home, full speed. Joy plodded along behind her, not trying to keep up.

Calf Club Day, and it was hot. Nickie kicked her blankets off, tried to breathe the thick air in her bedroom. The phone rang. She zipped down the hallway to answer it.

‘Change of plan,’ Gabrielle said. ‘On the outfits.’

‘We’re going to roast,’ Nickie replied.

‘I know, dummy. That’s why I said change of plan.’

‘Maybe we should just forget about the comprehensive look … just wear anything.’

‘No … I’ve sorted something out.’

‘Alright.’ Nickie knew it wouldn’t be alright, though. It would be terrible, for a reason she couldn’t yet guess, and it would give her a stomach-ache.

‘We’ll get changed at school. In the toilets. See ya later.’ Gabrielle hung up.

Nickie put on a T-shirt and an old pair of shorts from last summer and went into the kitchen for breakfast. Her mother glanced at her and smiled, and Nickie knew exactly what that was all about:
Oh look, Nickie’s back to normal in her T-shirt and seersucker shorts.
Nickie didn’t smile back, and her mother’s smile sort of just drooped into a sad clown mouth as she turned back to her eggs.

Nickie had come to understand a few things about her mother, since the day she’d slapped her face. Mainly, that she put on a show of being a good person, but actually was a bitch. She’d begged Nickie for weeks to share her worries. Finally, when Nickie spilled the beans, her mother hit her. The replays of that moment had become mixed up, in Nickie’s head, with Mr Gilbert hitting Mrs Gilbert. Nickie could see Mrs Gilbert just standing there taking the violence. Why hadn’t Mrs Gilbert fought back? Was that what sex was all about? What love turned into, when you were married?

Eugene parked the truck just inside the open gate to the school field.
Nickie jumped out and climbed up the side of the crate to check on Larry and Vincent. Their heads were hanging down, as though their necks were too weak to hold them up proudly. Nickie could tell they weren’t in the mood for a competition. Vincent lifted his tail and pooed. It splattered all over Larry’s legs. He didn’t even notice.

Other kids and their parents and pets were arriving. Nickie tied both the calves up at the fence, filled their water buckets, and went looking for Gabrielle. She was leaning against the doorway of the girls’ toilets. She wore an orange dress with silver buttons that caught the sun. There was a paper bag at her feet and Nickie’s heart lurched anxiously at the thought of what might be inside.

‘C’mon,’ Gabrielle said, pulling Nickie inside the toilet block. ‘We need to get ready.’

Sun-shapes seeped through the holes in the bricks at the top of the walls and fuzzed out on the concrete floor. There was a long wooden seat in the main part of the block, next to the hand basin. Gabrielle tipped the stuff out of the bag, onto the bench.

It was just underwear. A black bra, and matching black undies. And another set, but knitted. A knitted bra, the colour of caramel, and matching knitted undies. Nickie picked up the caramel bra and poked her finger into the knitting.

‘Um … what else will we wear?’

‘What do you mean, what else?’ Gabrielle knelt down on the scratchy concrete floor and laid all the bits out on the bench, as though two invisible flat girls were inside them.

‘We can’t wear just undies, Gabrielle.’ Nickie figured it was a joke. She looked behind the door, in all the cubicles, searching for another bag. There was no bag.

Gabrielle stood up, adjusted her lovely dress. ‘It’s not
underwear
. These are togs, Nickie. Bikinis. Just right for the hot day, and then we jump straight in the pool when the competition’s finished. That’s what you said happens, didn’t you? Everyone dives in? We’ll be first.’

The trouble with Gabrielle was that everything she said made sense, in a certain broken-down way. Yes, it was a hot day. Yes, bikinis would be the coolest thing you could wear on such a day. And, yes,
they’d be ready for the pool before everyone else. Yes, yes, yes, but no. Never in a million years would they get away with showing their calves in gumboots and bikinis.

‘We’ll look like the girls in magazines. The ones that advertise new cars,’ Gabrielle said.

‘
You
will look like a girl in a magazine. Not me.’

Nickie sat down on the bench. There was a crack in the wood under her leg and it pinched her skin. Although it was warm in the room — not hot, like outside, but warm like a normal day — she was cold. Shivery. And for some reason, really really tired. Nickie lay down on the bench on her back and put her arm over her eyes. The Janola smell of the toilets was starting to make her feel sick.

‘Are you alright, Nickie?’ Gabrielle’s hand was on her forehead, patting her hair, her curly disgusting hair, as though she were a cat.

Nickie nodded. She didn’t want to speak, in case her voice went crying-wobbly.

‘It was lucky she had a black one
and
a beige one. Bikinis, I mean. Lucky I kept them both.’

Bridie’s bikinis. Of course they were Bridie’s.

‘Gabrielle … what’s your dad going to say? When he sees us walking around in front of everyone in your mum’s togs?’

Nickie’s face was still covered, but she could feel the warmth of Gabrielle’s leg soaking into the top of her head. Her hand kept patting.

‘He’s probably not even coming to Calf Club Day. That’s what he said last night. He wasn’t sure whether he’d be allowed to take time off.’

‘Anyway, it’s not just that. Everyone will stare. And Mum will go nuts. It’ll be embarrassing, in front of everyone.’

Gabrielle’s hand lifted Nickie’s arm away from her face. Gabrielle leaned right over Nickie, but upside down. She was smiling. Her mouth looked funny the wrong way up.

‘Let’s just put them on, and put our clothes on over the top,’ she said. ‘That way we’ve got the choice, once we’re out there. If we’re feeling brave, or really over-heated, we can just slip our clothes off and bingo, we’re ready.’

There she was again, making sense that you couldn’t argue with. She didn’t wait for Nickie to answer — the cool orange dress was undone and fell to the floor, a puddle around her feet. Gabrielle took her undies and bra off and got into the black bikini. She turned around. ‘Can you do up the straps?’