Read Online The Blue Mile by Kim Kelly - Free Book Online

for Sunlight soap. And she’s not sleeping in a fucking park tonight.
    We leave Ag’s old clothes with the shop lady, and I hope she burns them too. ‘Merry Christmas, sir, and little miss,’ she says, and we say, ‘Merry Christmas to you.’
    Right. We’re off to this Public Works place now, and I’m going to get that job. I get a new shirt from the ground floor for eight bob, good-looking white one too, and barbering of my own woolly head for four – with directions to Bridge Street for free. ‘Public Works?’ the barber says. ‘It’s just around off Macquarie Street, big building, can’t miss it, across from the Gardens.’
    â€˜The Botanic Gardens?’
    â€˜That’s right.’
    Right. And I’m smiling, because this must be my job, I must have dreamed it into our tomorrow last night.
    It must show in me, too, because not fifteen minutes later, past the crowd of the registered unemployed outside Parliament House shouting ‘WE WANT WORK’ against a line of unhappy cops, I’m being looked over by a fella at this Department of Public Works, and he’s saying: ‘Yes, there’s one vacancy left, needs filling urgently – can’t seem to keep a man at it. Ever done any heavy work?’
    And although the honest answer is no, not lately and not much, I have to say, ‘Yes, heavy work is my calling,’ and he doesn’t even ask me for references, never mind any registration. He looks busy; come out of an office somewhere beyond the counter and he just wants a man for the job so he can get back to his own. I am in the right place at the right time, thank you, Lord. Two pounds left in my pocket and saved in the nick.
    He says: ‘You look fit enough, I suppose. Get yourself to the loading dock by the Dorman Long workshops at the north arm tomorrow morning at seven-thirty – the wharves at the Milsons Point shops, right?’
    â€˜Yes, sir,’ I nod; I’ll find them wherever they might be.
    He says: ‘Speak to Mr Matt Harrison at the office there, he’s the foreman in charge of the ironworker gangs and he’ll give you a go.’
    Give me a go at what I don’t know, and I don’t push my luck to ask. I’m that grateful, I could jump the counter to lick his boots. He gives me a piece of paper to give to this Mr Harrison, and I tell him: ‘You won’t be sorry you gave me a go, sir.’
    â€˜No, I’m sure I won’t be sorry. You might be, though, lad. Six pound five a week and you’ll know you’ve earned every farthing.’ He’s already turned away from me.
    â€˜Merry Christmas,’ I tell the back of him: and no, sir, I won’t be sorry, whatever this job might be. It’s six blessed pounds, five shillings a week for me. I’m going to rent us a little house somewhere good and we’ll live like kings.
    I pick Aggie up from where she’s waiting for me, picture of sunlight behind the foyer doors.
    â€˜Did you get a job?’ She looks up at me with those big blue wondering eyes of hers.
    And I could cry for happiness and all the madness of hoping as I tell her: ‘Yes I did, Ag, I got a job.’
    She nods, pleased, then she asks me: ‘Can we have egg and chips for lunch, then?’
    I tell her: ‘You can have whatever you want.’ I’ll be having a smoke next, whatever I do, and not thinking about an ale to chase it. Jesus, I will not have an ale while I am alive.
    My sister says: ‘Could you put me down, please, Yoey? You might crush my new frock.’
    And I reckon I could live for the next hundred years on that alone.

Olivia
    H m, what about a smart von Drécoll-ish coat-dress? I wonder as I drape my bolt of blue heaven over the back of the chaise. I’d ask Mother to come out and give me her opinion, but I’m still avoiding her. She’s in the stockroom, running up the kimono to my