he says stiffly. ‘He’s called Brad, if you can believe it. Worst of all, on the day I put her on the plane home, I found out that they’d never really broken up. They were just on hold while she was over here. Believe me, if there was no Brad, I’d have moved to Perth as soon as I could raise the airfare.’
‘Crap,’ I volunteer sympathetically, silently thanking the powers that be for Brad.
‘Certainly was,’ he agrees. ‘Is, I should say.’
‘Like Pip and Estella.’
‘Except that Pip never actually got his leg over.’ Chris grins through the darkness.
‘Well. We don’t think he did.’ I gesture for him to stop. ‘This is my house.’
Coming to a halt we face each other.
‘Thanks for dinner,’ I say. ‘It almost makes up for the bastardry.’
‘My pleasure. I’m just trying to teach you to be a discriminate pasher.’
‘That’s kind of you. Here I was thinking you were just being a complete A-hole.’
‘Tell you what.’
‘What?’ I tighten and untighten my grip on my schoolbag straps.
‘You welched on telling me about your dad. I welched on reciprocating a whole conversation. Here’s what we do. We write each other a letter in lieu of the conversation.’
‘A letter about my dad.’
‘Yep.’
‘All right.’
‘Now. It’s time you were in bed.’
We slip through the front gate of my family’s little terrace. Fishing out my keys, I creep up to the window and peer through a crack in the curtains. My father is reading in his easy chair next to the heater, a cigarette and a glass of Madeira in one hand, and a copy of the New Yorker in the other.
‘Goodnight then.’
‘Goodnight, youngster.’
I let myself in and quietly close the front door behind me. One of the tranquil moments from Liszt’s concerto number one in E flat major wafts through the living-room door. One of Dad’s favourites. It is nice.
‘Amelia?’ my father calls out.
‘Yes,’ I call back from the hallway.
‘Where have you been?’
‘Dinner with a friend from work.’ I head towards the staircase. Just before I put my foot on the first stair, he appears at the other end of the hall, still holding his Madeira glass.
‘Goodnight then.’
We regard each other.
‘Goodnight, Da.’
T HE FIRST XV
I get to school every day in one of two ways. In summer I walk, which takes fifty minutes at a brisk pace. In winter I catch the bus. Two buses, actually. One into the city where I wait at Taylor Square among the social dregs of the night before for another bus to take me to school. That, too, takes fifty minutes, all up. Go figure.
This morning I take the bus. Standing alone at Taylor Square I shiver in my thin school jumper. Penny and I are not on the same bus route. She lives at Maroubra Junction and comes from the opposite direction. There is a metal bench next to the bus-stop sign that I sometimes sit on to wait. Today there is a homeless man asleep along its entire length. He wears tattered black clothing, his skin is darkened with dirt, his long grey beard is streaked with dirt, and in his sleep he cradles a bottle-shaped paper bag. With a cold gust of wind, his stench of filth, despair and illness reaches my nostrils. I move several steps away and shift from one foot to the other against the cold.
Later that day Penny and I sit on the grass among our group of friends, eating our lunch. We’ve always been a tight twosome within the larger group.
‘How’s Jamie?’ I ask.
‘A bit better, I think. But he’s going to be there for a while longer.’ Penny draws her knees up to her chest, pulling the hem of her beltless box-pleat tunic down to her ankles. ‘Apparently we all have to go there for “family therapy”. Mum’s up in arms because she reckons it implies that she’s somehow to blame for Jamie. “It’s not all about you,” I tell her, but it doesn’t get me very far.’
‘You said that to your mum?’
‘Nah.’ She smiles. ‘But I think it all the time.’
I wish I
‘Crap,’ I volunteer sympathetically, silently thanking the powers that be for Brad.
‘Certainly was,’ he agrees. ‘Is, I should say.’
‘Like Pip and Estella.’
‘Except that Pip never actually got his leg over.’ Chris grins through the darkness.
‘Well. We don’t think he did.’ I gesture for him to stop. ‘This is my house.’
Coming to a halt we face each other.
‘Thanks for dinner,’ I say. ‘It almost makes up for the bastardry.’
‘My pleasure. I’m just trying to teach you to be a discriminate pasher.’
‘That’s kind of you. Here I was thinking you were just being a complete A-hole.’
‘Tell you what.’
‘What?’ I tighten and untighten my grip on my schoolbag straps.
‘You welched on telling me about your dad. I welched on reciprocating a whole conversation. Here’s what we do. We write each other a letter in lieu of the conversation.’
‘A letter about my dad.’
‘Yep.’
‘All right.’
‘Now. It’s time you were in bed.’
We slip through the front gate of my family’s little terrace. Fishing out my keys, I creep up to the window and peer through a crack in the curtains. My father is reading in his easy chair next to the heater, a cigarette and a glass of Madeira in one hand, and a copy of the New Yorker in the other.
‘Goodnight then.’
‘Goodnight, youngster.’
I let myself in and quietly close the front door behind me. One of the tranquil moments from Liszt’s concerto number one in E flat major wafts through the living-room door. One of Dad’s favourites. It is nice.
‘Amelia?’ my father calls out.
‘Yes,’ I call back from the hallway.
‘Where have you been?’
‘Dinner with a friend from work.’ I head towards the staircase. Just before I put my foot on the first stair, he appears at the other end of the hall, still holding his Madeira glass.
‘Goodnight then.’
We regard each other.
‘Goodnight, Da.’
T HE FIRST XV
I get to school every day in one of two ways. In summer I walk, which takes fifty minutes at a brisk pace. In winter I catch the bus. Two buses, actually. One into the city where I wait at Taylor Square among the social dregs of the night before for another bus to take me to school. That, too, takes fifty minutes, all up. Go figure.
This morning I take the bus. Standing alone at Taylor Square I shiver in my thin school jumper. Penny and I are not on the same bus route. She lives at Maroubra Junction and comes from the opposite direction. There is a metal bench next to the bus-stop sign that I sometimes sit on to wait. Today there is a homeless man asleep along its entire length. He wears tattered black clothing, his skin is darkened with dirt, his long grey beard is streaked with dirt, and in his sleep he cradles a bottle-shaped paper bag. With a cold gust of wind, his stench of filth, despair and illness reaches my nostrils. I move several steps away and shift from one foot to the other against the cold.
Later that day Penny and I sit on the grass among our group of friends, eating our lunch. We’ve always been a tight twosome within the larger group.
‘How’s Jamie?’ I ask.
‘A bit better, I think. But he’s going to be there for a while longer.’ Penny draws her knees up to her chest, pulling the hem of her beltless box-pleat tunic down to her ankles. ‘Apparently we all have to go there for “family therapy”. Mum’s up in arms because she reckons it implies that she’s somehow to blame for Jamie. “It’s not all about you,” I tell her, but it doesn’t get me very far.’
‘You said that to your mum?’
‘Nah.’ She smiles. ‘But I think it all the time.’
I wish I
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