The Fine Colour of Rust. P. O’Reilly A.
Читать онлайн книгу.
want to believe he’ll send a letter – to his children, at least.
‘Well, that’s settled. We’re staying.’
When we get inside, the kids brush their teeth without a single protest and climb into bed.
‘You OK, Jakie?’ I lean down to kiss him goodnight.
‘Brianna and her boyfriend had a fight,’ he whispers. ‘I think he hit her.’
I kiss him twice, then again.
‘I’m sure she’s all right. I’ll call her tomorrow. You go to sleep now.’
‘I don’t want bananas in my lunch.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it. Bananas stink,’ I say as I turn out the light.
Next morning, as I’m packing bananas into their lunch boxes, I realize I forgot to thank Norm for the lemons.
I drop into the yard on the way back from the shops. He’s down the back of the block with three other blokes, all of them standing in a line with their arms folded, staring at the body of an old tractor. This would be the matching statue to mine: bloke standing, feet apart, arms folded, staring at a piece of broken machinery. No idea how to fix it. We could put Him and Her statues either side of the highway coming into Gunapan.
I wait beside the shed while the delicate sales negotiations go on. I’ve never understood exactly how the communication works. Perhaps the meaning is in the number of head nods, or the volume of the grunt as the customer shifts from one leg to the other. After they’ve stared at the tractor body in apparent silence for five minutes, Norm sees me and ambles up.
‘Don’t tell me you’re going to sell something, Norm?’
‘Not bloody likely. Every month these three clowns are here with some new scheme for making money.’
‘None of them happens to ride a Harley?’
He doesn’t even bother answering, just nods his head at their ute on the road. We step inside the shed for a cuppa. The radio’s on the racing station.
‘Harlequin Dancer made a good run from fourth in race seven last night,’ I remark.
‘You need a new car. I’m working on it, love. Shouldn’t be too much longer.’ Norm hands me a cup, covered in grease, and a paper towel to wipe it with.
There are enough parts in Norm’s yard for him to put together ten perfectly good cars, and he has been trying to build me a new one for years. But his speciality is disassembly rather than assembly. As soon as the collection of engine parts and panels begins to bear a resemblance to an actual car, he decides it’s not right and has to pull it apart and start again.
He takes a noisy slurp of his tea before he speaks again. ‘Sorry I didn’t get to the meeting.’
‘The school’s not your problem.’
‘Course it’s my problem. It’s everybody’s bloody problem.’
We drink our tea. The three blokes wave as they pass the shed. There’s a protest at Randwick in race two. The jockey on the second-placed horse is alleging interference from the winner at the final turn.
‘I’ve got money on that horse.’ Norm turns up the volume.
‘Which one?’
‘The one that’ll buy you a bottle of bubbly if it wins the protest. Long odds. Very long odds. Bring me luck, Loretta.’
The day’s starting to heat up and blowies are banging against the tin roof of the shed. Norm picks up the trannie and holds it to his ear. I look out at the heat shimmering over the piles of junk. Norm’s touching his crusty forehead as he listens for the outcome of the protest. He must win against the odds sometimes, I think – otherwise why bother betting?
2
Thank you for your letter of 9 January. I fully understand the concerns you have expressed and would like to take this opportunity to explain how these concerns are being addressed by your government.
When I show the committee members the letter at the next meeting they hoot like owls. ‘Fully understand!’ ‘Take this opportunity!’ It’s as good as a party, they laugh so much.
‘I told you it wouldn’t work.’ Brenda nods sagely.
‘It’s a step.’ I’m not letting her get away with I told you so. ‘The first step. It’s a game. We make a bid, they try to negotiate us down.’
‘Sure.’ She’s still doing that nod. ‘Like we’ve got real negotiating power.’
‘Shut up, Brenda,’ Norm says.
Helen is here again but the grade-three teacher is missing so Helen is downcast. No, she’s more than downcast. Her high hair has flagged. Perhaps the heat in the air has melted the gel. Whatever happened, the fluffy creation that brushed the architrave when she walked in has flattened out to match her spirit and she’s slumped in the orange plastic chair beside me, motionless bar the occasional crackle as she winkles another Kool Mint from her open bag, pretending no one can hear the sighs and crunches of her working her way through the packet.
‘I’ve written another letter,’ I tell them. ‘This time, I’ve copied it to our shire councillors, the local member, the prime minister, the headmaster, the school board, all the teachers and all of the parents at the school.’
Silence. Kyleen opens her mouth and closes it when Maxine jabs her in the ribs. Norm flips through the pages of minutes in his hands. The air is close and still and next door at the Church of Goodwill meeting someone is talking loud and long in a deep voice.
‘I spent our whole budget on photocopying and postage,’ I go on. ‘You’ll get the letter in the mail tomorrow.’
‘Is that why we haven’t got biscuits?’ Trust Kyleen to ask. I’ve always wondered how many of them only came for the biscuits.
‘I buy the biscuits,’ Maxine answers. ‘I didn’t have time, that’s all.’
We fall back into silence.
Eventually I speak. ‘We could give up. Let them close the school – we can carpool to get the kids to Halstead Primary.’
No one moves. Brenda’s staring at the floor. I’m expecting her to jump in and agree with me. Her house is painted a dull army green and her clothes are beige and puce and brown and her kids stay out on the streets till eight or nine at night as Brenda turns on light after light and stands silhouetted in the doorway with her cardigan pulled tight around her, waiting for them to come home. She turns up to my meetings as if she is only here to make sure nothing good happens from them. But tonight she reaches over to pat me on the knee.
‘Loretta, I know it won’t work, and you probably know deep down it won’t work, but you can’t give up now,’ she says.
Kyleen stands up and punches the air, as if she’s at a footie match. ‘That’s right! Don’t give up, Loretta. Like they said in Dead Poets Society, “Nil bastardum”,’ she pauses, then trails off, ‘“carburettorum”…’
‘“Grindem down”?’ Norm finishes.
Next day, Norm’s cleaning motor parts with kerosene when I knock on the tin frame of his shed.
‘Knew it was you. You should try braking a little earlier, Loretta.’ He doesn’t even have to look up.
‘Norm, what happened to your forehead?’
‘Bloody doctor chopped off half my face.’
‘Oh, God, I knew it. I knew something was wrong with that patch of skin. Not skin cancer?’ My heart is banging in my chest.
‘Not anymore.’ He reaches up to touch the white bandage, which is already covered in oily fingerprints. ‘They