“Home sweet home.”
Louie looked about. There was only a park, a bus terminal, a service station and—
“The pub?”
“Uhuh,” grunted Willa. “We live upstairs.” She waited till the ute did a U-turn and roared off down the street. “See ya, Louie,” she said, as she and Judas crossed the road.
“See ya,” replied Louie, still startled. She half-lifted a hand. “Maybe at school, eh?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
Louie stared at the pub. It was a big concrete building painted dark green and red, a neon sign outside advertising it as the DB Duke Tavern. The bottle store and lounge bar were both dark, but there was a light on somewhere in the public bar. Upstairs three long narrow windows were lit behind blinds like yellow teeth.
Louie looked back to the street to see which door Willa had gone in, but there was no sign of her or Judas.
Willa was first up in the morning again. She wasn’t used to it. Bliss always used to be in the bathroom hogging the shower or stealing Willa’s hairdryer then singing at the top of her voice.
She made herself toast and tea, and took a cup through to her mother.
Jolene stirred when Willa turned on the radio, and then she spotted the tea beside her.
“Oh, you wee love,” she croaked, and pulled herself up in bed to drink it.
The morning light was a cold winter glare through the upstairs window as Willa drew back the curtains and rolled up the old manila blind. Through the bars of the fire escape she watched the early traffic bunch up at the lights, then take off in a cloud of exhaust. The mechanic at the corner service station stood over the open bonnet of an old Cortina as his friend revved the engine and added more exhaust to the morning air.
“Pass me m’ smokes, love.”
Willa turned and studied her mother.
“Don’t start. I’ve got a bloody shocker.” Jolene leaned her head back against the headboard and closed her eyes. Willa tossed a full packet of cigarettes and a lighter from the dresser. They landed on Jolene’s lap, and she patted the bedclothes until she located them. Jolene always had headaches in the morning these days, and she seemed to have given up trying to quit smoking. “You bloody try to quit smoking while you’re working in it all day,” she’d say. “It’s like Jenny Craig working in a flamin’ cake shop.”
Willa perched on the dresser and watched as her mother lit the cigarette and drew in deeply. “Ahh, beaut. That’s better.” The line of white smoke she exhaled flowed toward the window where it mingled with the dirty white view. Jolene reached for her cup of tea with one hand and the ashtray beside her bed with the other. Her hair was muzzed on the side where she’d been sleeping and her face was blotched with pink on that side too. Her eyes looked small and bare in her face without make-up.
“Oh, god love, don’t look at me, I’m a mess,” she said, catching Willa’s eye, and with the hand that held the cigarette she tugged away at the flatter side of her hair. Jolene had the same red hair as her two daughters, but nowadays she dyed it a darker auburn to cover the greying temples.
“No one looks good in the morning, Mum.” Willa stepped inside an approaching drift of cigarette smoke, and flopped into an old armchair on the other side of the bed.
“You all ready for school?” her mother asked.
“Just need some money for lunch.”
Jolene snorted. “Shoulda known. Cups of tea don’t come cheap round here.” She pointed at the dresser. “In me handbag. Oh, there’s the mail there too, from yesterday. I think there’s a letter from Bliss and Gary. Bring it over. You got time?” she asked her daughter.
“Sure, if you’ve got the money.” Willa dropped the black bag into her mother’s hands.
“You’ve lived in a pub too long.” Jolene rummaged in her purse and pulled out a note. “That enough?” she asked Willa.
“Uhuh.” She put it in the pocket of her jeans and sat back down in the armchair. Jolene was sorting through a bundle of letters, firing the bills onto her bedside table and putting others beside her on the bed. She handed one to Willa with a grin. “Love letter?” she quipped. Then she frowned quickly and bit her lip. “Just joking,” she muttered and returned to her own mail. “Here it is,” she said with relief, and looked back at her daughter. Willa’s letter had disappeared.
“Open it,” Willa replied.
The letter was in Bliss’s large round writing. She and Gary had found a flat in Grey Lynn, nice and central, although it was a bit of a hovel. They were sharing with two other guys, an ex-girl-friend of one and occasionally her new boyfriend. “Nice going,” commented Willa. Gary was loving his mate’s workshop, lots of grunty bikes and good overtime, and Bliss had just got a part-time job in a clothes shop in Newmarket. The weather was fantastic, still shirt-sleeves, they’d heard it was freezing in Dunedin at the moment blah blah blah … Hope the pub’s okay and no hassles lately, make sure Sid looks after you all right, and love to Willa, tell her to stay out of my wardrobe I still want those things, hope everything’s good at the new school, what a business—Jolene faltered a bit in her reading.
“You told her.” Willa glowered at her mother.
“Only a little, love.”
“What does she say?”
“Oh, not much, just the usual.” Jolene turned the page.
“What?”
Jolene sighed and turned back. “She just says it sounds like an overreaction to her.”
“Huh. That’s for real.” Willa got up and started to leave the room.
“You fed Judas?” Jolene asked.
“Yup.”
“Elvis?”
“No, not yet.” Willa tried to close the door.
“Do it before you leave.”
p.
Elvis chirped as soon as Willa came back into the kitchen, and Judas bounced around her legs.
“Okay, okay,” she said irritably. She took the feeding dishes out of the birdcage and washed them in the sink. She hated the sweet smell of the budgie cage, and the mixture of droppings and white fluff that always got in the water dish. As she replaced the filled dishes in his cage, Elvis jumped back and forth from his perch to his swing to the bars of the cage and chirrupped at Willa.
“Yeah yeah,” she muttered, sliding down the glass plates that held the dishes in place. “Life’s a dream, I know.”
When Willa picked up a shoulder bag that held all her school work from the table, Judas jumped up and ran to the door with her.
“Sorry mate,” she said, patting the dog’s head. “I’ll see you after school.” Judas’s ears flattened and he stretched his lowered head out toward the door hopefully. “You know the story, Judas,” Willa warned, and the big dog sank to the floor and gazed up at her with his sad brown eyes. Willa gave him a last rub around the ears which made him thump his tail once only, then she went out the door and headed for the stairs. She yelled a “Hooray” to her mother, but all she could hear in reply was a hacking cough from the bedroom.
At the turn of the stairs she hit the smell. Beer. The smell of it and cigarettes pervaded her life. The walls of the pub seemed to ooze it, and although Jolene and Sid were scrupulous about cleaning up at night, not the morning after, the smell never disappeared. At the bottom of the stairs she glanced through the glass doors to the lounge bar. The red and gold patterned carpet was in shadow but a little light from the window made the dark wood tables and stalls gleam and the spirit bottles glittered from above the bar. Willa reached into her back pocket and pulled out the pale blue letter her mother had handed her. She stared at it for a bit, then finally ripped it open, and read the slip of paper inside.
Die, bitch.
p.
Woodhaugh Girls’ High was set in a small open valley in north Dunedin, an area which had become popular in recent years with the subdivision of a tract of land along Woodhaugh, high on the sunny side. New residents had fabulous views to the north of the city across hills of native bush—much of which had been felled on their side in order to build houses. The Leith River ran through the heart of the gorge, and spread around its course was the original valley suburb known for its modest homes, bush tracks, gardens and a park. During summer it could be idyllic, but winter in the valley was harsh and the new residents on top of the hill often looked down on a blanket of fog and permafrost where the park and the school were located.
It was a short walk for Willa from the Duke to the new brick school in the valley. The sleek, colourful classrooms, albeit overheated by eight o’clock in the morning, were a luxury compared to the old prefabs at Miller Park. These were carpeted, and had comfortable chairs and soundproofed rooms. All she could remember from Miller Park was noise—constant clatter and sound rebounding off thin, shiny walls.
The hall was really an auditorium, with raked blue seating looking down on a wide polished wood stage. At assembly Willa’s form filled about two rows on the left of the hall. The principal, Mrs. Eagles, spoke to them about the usual things; the debating team had won something, the Maori Culture Group was going to Turangawaewae, the netball team was fund-raising, nobody was returning their library books and studies had shown smokers didn’t make it to the top one third of management. Mrs. Eagles called it the “nicotine ceiling” and some girls laughed. Willa knew all about nicotine ceilings, but she thought she was probably taking it too literally.
The prefects sat at the front of the auditorium facing the stage, and Mrs. Eagles gestured to the front row, then called up Louise Angelo to speak about drama.
Louie was dressed as a clown in spotted pantaloons and a crazily patterned shirt. She wore huge pink plastic shoes which she fought with getting up the steps to the stage. When the audience began to laugh, she played it up, and fell over, then glared at Mrs. Eagles who was laughing at her. Finally she waddled to the microphone, patted it, then got a big fright when the thump reverberated around the hall. She went back slowly and blew in it and the same thing happened. Eventually, pretending to be terrified by the audience and the mike, she read her lines from dozens of tiny little cue cards in the flattest, dullest voice you could imagine.
“Ladies and gentlemen it. Is my pleasure to invite you. To the magnificent stupid—stupi—stupendous unbelievably exciting. Opening of the Comedy Club.” Her face was unmoving and she continued in the same frightened-to-death voice. “Today at lunchtime right. Here in the auditorium you will. Never forget the thrill. And spectacle of our performance everyone. Is welcome but please—do. Not get too excited. Tickets are free yes. Free from the prefects. Room you must have a ticket to get. In get yours now yes now and laugh your heads. Off at the wit brilliance and. Antics of the world’s funniest comedy troupe from Woodhaugh. High.” Then Louie turned to Mrs. Eagles with relief and as the principal congratulated her on getting through it she pretended to faint in Mrs. Eagles’ arms. A few wry slaps on the cheeks from Mrs. Eagles brought the clown around pretty quickly, and holding her hurt cheeks she shambled off the stage to a round of applause and laughter from the school.
Next to her, a girl Willa had met last week, Geena, said, “She’s so good, eh. Got anything on at lunchtime?”
Willa shook her head.
“Let’s go then, eh?” Geena had dark hair and a cheeky grin. “Should be a laugh.”
“As long as there’s no audience participation,” answered Willa. “I like plays where I sit and know I’m safe.”
“Scaredy-cat.” They were moving out of the hall. “What’ve you got now?” Geena asked.
“Maths.”
“Who?”
“Mrs. Lamont.”
Geena grimaced. “Better you than me. Okay,” she said, as they came to an intersection of corridors and got caught in the press, “I’ve got a free, I’ll pick up tickets for both of us and meet you—where? Here?”
“Sure!” yelled Willa as Geena was swept further away. “Twelve-twenty, here!”
The tickets to the Comedy Club performance were bright orange with the letters
PCC
on them. At the door to the auditorium they were checked but everyone was told to hold onto them. Geena and Willa found seats right at the front, which was lucky because the auditorium was about two-thirds full.
Eventually the lights went out and Willa noticed a large screen on the stage.
“Did you ever hear the one about…” came a voice through the auditorium speakers
“...the
teacher
???” On the screen appeared a huge face shoved up against the camera so it was distorted and ugly. One beady eye peered out at the audience.
A person jumped out from behind the stage. “She resigned from the morgue because of too much talking back.”
Another figure leapt out. Louie. “She was fired by the Freezing Works for cruelty to animals.”
“She was thrown out of the Iraqi army for brutality.”
The lights came up. They were in men’s tailcoats and large coloured cravats. Louie’s was purple, the other girl’s orange. Louie stepped forward first.
“Welcome to the first performance of the soon to be worldfamous Comedy Club. You each have a ticket in your hand. I’m going to ask you to do something very important. Tear it up. Go on, tear it up, and throw it away!”
All around Willa people began tearing their ticket and throwing it into the air.
“Good on you. Now say after me. We are all individuals. Go on—we are all—”
Some of the audience began saying it before they realised what they were doing, then they laughed.
“Okay, just a little joke there for the third formers. Now that ticket you just tore up and threw away, that was your politically correct card. From now on you don’t have to worry about it. Politics is a four-letter word in the Comedy Club vocabulary. Four letters is as much as Mo can spell anyway, but if you’re hooked on being politically correct you might want to leave now. Be a geek now or forever hold your peace!” Nobody moved.
“What we want to know in the Comedy Club, is who first stuck their dirty great political boot into comedians? Humour is universal, right? It’s politics that causes all the trouble. If laughter was really the international currency, we’d have no—”
“Mogadishu!” exclaimed Mo.
“Bless you,” replied Louie, and the audience laughed. “Croats, and Kurds!”