measured him with a tailor’s tape. She put a stethoscope in her ears and put the other end on his chest. After she’d listened for a moment in frowning concentration she said, ‘Good. All in working order.’ She handed Mathew back. She even smiled.
Moira flared her nostrils in relief but didn’t let any extra emotion show.
Not until she got back to the car. There she strapped Mathew in and sat behind the steering wheel and let herself weep.
She got a fan belt from Brogan’s, and wouldn’t let him fit it, just like Midge told her. Her cunning hat was still on and she was so thrilled to have a healthy Mathew that she thought she’d try to get the men at Brogans to work for nothing. They didn’t come at it but she had fun trying. She said, ‘So much for community spirit,’ and, ‘If I break down in the hot sun and die it’ll be on your head.’ They laughed but didn’t budge.
The newsagent lady scanned the Tatts numbers for winnings. None. Moira had her change the Momaza Shami syndicate name back to the original so that Shane had nothing to complain about in future.
The crockery raffle was announced that morning. The organisers pinned the results to the community notice board. Moira wanted to delay knowing because that way she could pretend she’d won. She couldn’t pretend forever. She carried Mathew to the town hall, where the board was, and waited for someone to walk by, someone she could ask to read the names out, claim she was blind without her glasses. An old man on a walking stick did it. He had half a nose and only one ear, the way they cut cancer away. Her name wasn’t on the glory list but she didn’t care like she’d thought she would. She had a fit and well Mathew.
There was rubbish in the boot to dump. Two places to do it—the supermarket dumpsters or the trotting track bins. She didn’t need to shop today, and had a jerry can to fill, so the trotting track it was. That meant driving in a homeward direction with the sun now to her left. She changed the window towel to the other side. She waited for the stocking to stop squealing and grip the right parts of the engine. Once it did she accelerated gently, wishing she didn’t have to drive off. It would be lovely to wander in town with Mathew and not have to face Zara. What should she do with Zara? Nothing, maybe. Let the girl sleep away her life and forget she had a son. Or help her into loving it, make her love it. Hold her hand and be gentle, or force her with a savage tongue.
Morning training was over and Moira had the track’s car park to herself. She got rid of the rubbish. The bins were full of feed sacks and dung and she had to use the sacks like gloves to push hard and make a space for her plastic bags. A cloud of flies blew into her hair as she did it. The smell of horse dung was usually a pleasant, garden kind of odour. Squashed down within its juices among flies and sacks it stank like any other rubbish.
She washed her hands in the ladies’, a good lathering of wall soap, and went to the toilet. Washed her hands again and filled the jerry can. Then washed her hands again and took Mathew into the toilet with her, laying him on the bench you pulled out from the wall for changing. He was awake and hungry and starting to bawl. She changed him and gave herself a quick wash under the arms and between her legs and put Mathew in the car for hurrying home. ‘You hang on, little man. I’ll have you fed in no time.’
Not a good moment for the stocking not to grip, she thought aloud. But it did grip and off she went over the shuddering rail crossing, past the silos that soared high like the enormous chimneys of an underground town. Above those flew an air-town of pigeons and above them clouds arched and spread like smoke. She sped up towards the open road. The wind was strong enough to bunt the car and tug at the steering wheel. Dust was lifting from the paddocks and crossing in front of her like dirty drizzle. At the bridge that was
Moira flared her nostrils in relief but didn’t let any extra emotion show.
Not until she got back to the car. There she strapped Mathew in and sat behind the steering wheel and let herself weep.
She got a fan belt from Brogan’s, and wouldn’t let him fit it, just like Midge told her. Her cunning hat was still on and she was so thrilled to have a healthy Mathew that she thought she’d try to get the men at Brogans to work for nothing. They didn’t come at it but she had fun trying. She said, ‘So much for community spirit,’ and, ‘If I break down in the hot sun and die it’ll be on your head.’ They laughed but didn’t budge.
The newsagent lady scanned the Tatts numbers for winnings. None. Moira had her change the Momaza Shami syndicate name back to the original so that Shane had nothing to complain about in future.
The crockery raffle was announced that morning. The organisers pinned the results to the community notice board. Moira wanted to delay knowing because that way she could pretend she’d won. She couldn’t pretend forever. She carried Mathew to the town hall, where the board was, and waited for someone to walk by, someone she could ask to read the names out, claim she was blind without her glasses. An old man on a walking stick did it. He had half a nose and only one ear, the way they cut cancer away. Her name wasn’t on the glory list but she didn’t care like she’d thought she would. She had a fit and well Mathew.
There was rubbish in the boot to dump. Two places to do it—the supermarket dumpsters or the trotting track bins. She didn’t need to shop today, and had a jerry can to fill, so the trotting track it was. That meant driving in a homeward direction with the sun now to her left. She changed the window towel to the other side. She waited for the stocking to stop squealing and grip the right parts of the engine. Once it did she accelerated gently, wishing she didn’t have to drive off. It would be lovely to wander in town with Mathew and not have to face Zara. What should she do with Zara? Nothing, maybe. Let the girl sleep away her life and forget she had a son. Or help her into loving it, make her love it. Hold her hand and be gentle, or force her with a savage tongue.
Morning training was over and Moira had the track’s car park to herself. She got rid of the rubbish. The bins were full of feed sacks and dung and she had to use the sacks like gloves to push hard and make a space for her plastic bags. A cloud of flies blew into her hair as she did it. The smell of horse dung was usually a pleasant, garden kind of odour. Squashed down within its juices among flies and sacks it stank like any other rubbish.
She washed her hands in the ladies’, a good lathering of wall soap, and went to the toilet. Washed her hands again and filled the jerry can. Then washed her hands again and took Mathew into the toilet with her, laying him on the bench you pulled out from the wall for changing. He was awake and hungry and starting to bawl. She changed him and gave herself a quick wash under the arms and between her legs and put Mathew in the car for hurrying home. ‘You hang on, little man. I’ll have you fed in no time.’
Not a good moment for the stocking not to grip, she thought aloud. But it did grip and off she went over the shuddering rail crossing, past the silos that soared high like the enormous chimneys of an underground town. Above those flew an air-town of pigeons and above them clouds arched and spread like smoke. She sped up towards the open road. The wind was strong enough to bunt the car and tug at the steering wheel. Dust was lifting from the paddocks and crossing in front of her like dirty drizzle. At the bridge that was
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