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Authors: Corinne Grant
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spilled out of containers and an Itty Bitty Bin full of erasers sat at the foot of my bed. If Dickens’ Miss Havisham had grown up a teenager in the eighties and shared a bedroom with her sister, this is what it would have looked like. When Thomas opened the door, I lied and told him that most of the stuff belonged to Wendy.
We sat down to dinner and Dad carved the roast. My father is a very traditional man with some very strong, albeit unusual, rules: shoes should always be shined, men do not swear in front of women, and under no circumstances should fruit ever be put in a savoury dish. Thomas had good shoes and had never shown a penchant for apricot chicken but he came from the city and had a lot of Scottish friends; swearing was like breathing to him. Sure enough, somewhere between the lamb being served and the gravy being poured, Thomas took a call on his mobile at the dinner table and said ‘Fuck.’ Loudly. Then he said it again. My sister, my mother and I all stared at our plates, hoping that if we did not look up, then the world would conveniently stand still and my father would somehow suffer a very specific form of amnesia, wiping the last ten seconds from his memory. When I eventually did look at my father it was obvious that was not the case. He was still passing around the gravy but he looked like he was passing a stone. Thomas continued his phone call, oblivious to the silent, slow-motion mayhem unfolding around him. I can only imagine that my father decided not to haul Thomas outside and run him down with the rotary hoe because he didn’t want his dinner to go cold.
When I told Thomas later what he had done he went weak and had to sit down. So much for first impressions. It would be another year before Thomas finally felt that he had earned my father’s forgiveness and that was only because my father accidentally ran into his car and tore off the back end. It was the first and only time I have ever seen someone relieved to be in a car accident.
The next morning my sister Wendy and I drove out to the caravan park to pick up the others. She was still laughing.
‘He said “fuck” at the dinner table, Corinne! Maybe we can get him to say grace tonight. “Hey, God, thanks for the fucking chicken.” ’ More laughter.
Adam came running out of the caravan as we parked. ‘Jamie knows the bull spoof guy!’
What a wonderful trip this was turning into.
‘The bull spoof guy! J went to school with him!’ Adam was waving excitedly as if he had just found out that Jamie was related to Mariah Carey.
‘We saw him on the telly! He’s selling bull spoof!’ Adam was laughing maniacally. I could not figure out if Thomas looked amused or sick.
I shut the car door and kissed my boyfriend hello. ‘They sell bull semen to farmers for breeding. It’s not some kind of weird sex thing. At least not until J and Adam found out about it.’
Jamie grinned. The part of a country kid that delights in grossing out city people never disappears. When I was in high school I made a video for my city penpal that showed me sticking my arm into a cow’s mouth to prove they didn’t bite. (The cow did bite—a lot—but we managed to edit that out.) Now Jamie, like a true country kid, was standing in the doorway of the caravan, arms folded and laughing as Adam breathlessly told my unimpressed sister everything he had just discovered about artificial animal insemination.
I watched as Jamie climbed into the back of my sister’s car. Although we were both from country Victoria, a childhood desire to disturb city people was where the similarities between us ended. He had done a far better job of assimilating into city life than I had. He was groovy. He had groovy wavy blond hair, long, but not too long, just groovy. He wore T-shirts bearing the names of indie bands. He had an earring. Admittedly, he also drove a Barina with cow-print seat covers, so the transformation wasn’t complete, but he was a long way ahead of me. I had
We sat down to dinner and Dad carved the roast. My father is a very traditional man with some very strong, albeit unusual, rules: shoes should always be shined, men do not swear in front of women, and under no circumstances should fruit ever be put in a savoury dish. Thomas had good shoes and had never shown a penchant for apricot chicken but he came from the city and had a lot of Scottish friends; swearing was like breathing to him. Sure enough, somewhere between the lamb being served and the gravy being poured, Thomas took a call on his mobile at the dinner table and said ‘Fuck.’ Loudly. Then he said it again. My sister, my mother and I all stared at our plates, hoping that if we did not look up, then the world would conveniently stand still and my father would somehow suffer a very specific form of amnesia, wiping the last ten seconds from his memory. When I eventually did look at my father it was obvious that was not the case. He was still passing around the gravy but he looked like he was passing a stone. Thomas continued his phone call, oblivious to the silent, slow-motion mayhem unfolding around him. I can only imagine that my father decided not to haul Thomas outside and run him down with the rotary hoe because he didn’t want his dinner to go cold.
When I told Thomas later what he had done he went weak and had to sit down. So much for first impressions. It would be another year before Thomas finally felt that he had earned my father’s forgiveness and that was only because my father accidentally ran into his car and tore off the back end. It was the first and only time I have ever seen someone relieved to be in a car accident.
The next morning my sister Wendy and I drove out to the caravan park to pick up the others. She was still laughing.
‘He said “fuck” at the dinner table, Corinne! Maybe we can get him to say grace tonight. “Hey, God, thanks for the fucking chicken.” ’ More laughter.
Adam came running out of the caravan as we parked. ‘Jamie knows the bull spoof guy!’
What a wonderful trip this was turning into.
‘The bull spoof guy! J went to school with him!’ Adam was waving excitedly as if he had just found out that Jamie was related to Mariah Carey.
‘We saw him on the telly! He’s selling bull spoof!’ Adam was laughing maniacally. I could not figure out if Thomas looked amused or sick.
I shut the car door and kissed my boyfriend hello. ‘They sell bull semen to farmers for breeding. It’s not some kind of weird sex thing. At least not until J and Adam found out about it.’
Jamie grinned. The part of a country kid that delights in grossing out city people never disappears. When I was in high school I made a video for my city penpal that showed me sticking my arm into a cow’s mouth to prove they didn’t bite. (The cow did bite—a lot—but we managed to edit that out.) Now Jamie, like a true country kid, was standing in the doorway of the caravan, arms folded and laughing as Adam breathlessly told my unimpressed sister everything he had just discovered about artificial animal insemination.
I watched as Jamie climbed into the back of my sister’s car. Although we were both from country Victoria, a childhood desire to disturb city people was where the similarities between us ended. He had done a far better job of assimilating into city life than I had. He was groovy. He had groovy wavy blond hair, long, but not too long, just groovy. He wore T-shirts bearing the names of indie bands. He had an earring. Admittedly, he also drove a Barina with cow-print seat covers, so the transformation wasn’t complete, but he was a long way ahead of me. I had
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