The Fine Color of Rust (17 page)

“No worries,” the woman said. “Just don't leave any gates open, OK?”

In the pen, the male was sitting on top of the female and groaning. Melissa blushed and Jake asked what they were doing.

“They're making babies,” Melissa muttered.

Jake stepped up close to the fence and peered at the alpacas. The female, crushed under the male, was chewing cud, staring off into the distance. The male rolled its eyes and groaned again.

“He's been at it for an hour already,” the owner remarked.

Another drawn-out groan.

“That's enough,” the woman shouted. “You've finished, you moron. Get off it. G'awn, get off.”

She stepped inside the pen and flicked a whippy tree branch at the male, who rolled his eyes at her and moaned again. The
female angled her long neck around, yawned, stared for a moment, then went back to chewing. They clearly don't bother faking it in the alpaca world. One more flick of the branch and the male fell off, scrambled to his feet, and strutted through the gate and into the paddock. The female tucked her legs further under her and nodded off. Their behavior seemed familiar, but I decided not to think too hard about it.

On the way back down the driveway we were followed along the fence by five alpacas that stared at us without blinking.

I heard the alpaca family turned a profit for the first time last year. What a good reason to keep the town alive—developing industry! And the meatworks is going great guns, as the minister saw. We produce a lot of children. Everyone says we need more children in this country. Yes, Gunapan certainly needs a school and a new, improved committee. Maybe I'll spice it up by making it the Save Our School and Stop Our Development Committee. We can help Norm out with his Unsightly Property Notice.

Luckily I kept my list of anyone who had ever turned up to a Save Our School meeting, offered to turn up to a meeting, asked about the meetings, mentioned the word
meeting
, or had not definitely said they would never attend a meeting. But I'm not quite ready for the whole telephone thing, so I settle down to write a letter of irresistible charm that will have everyone wanting to join the Save Our School and Stop Our Development Committee Mark II.

Dear local parents and concerned citizens,

The school term is now well under way and—

No. I sound like the principal.

Dear local parents and concerned citizens,

You may remember the visit to Gunapan of our

Minister for Education, Elderly Care and Gaming—

Oops, another problem. Not only has the minister who came to Gunapan lost his ministership, it's no longer the Ministry of Education, Elderly Care and Gaming. The new minister, a woman, is the Minister for Education, Social Inclusion and the Service Economy. If we have to give her a tour I don't know what we'll show her. The school, the pub, and the meals on wheels? I'll leave that problem for later. Now I need to write this letter.

Dear comrades, local parents, and concerned citizens,

Our community is faced with a crisis of—

Although, is something that will happen in two years' time a crisis? Or is a crisis something that is about to happen right now?

“Mum, I've finished dusting the lounge room. Can we go to a movie?”

“Call it a film, Jake.
Movie
makes you sound like an American.”

“But I want to be American. Americans have cookies and cream.”

“Ice cream, that's what we should have bought for Justin.” I can't imagine what Norm's doing right now. How do you talk to a son who's been in prison for fourteen years?

“Mum, can I have some ice cream?”

“OK,” I tell Jake.

He stands still beside me, astounded that I've given in without a fight.

“Go on,” I tell him. “It's in the freezer.”

Jake narrows his eyes at me as if he thinks it's a trick.

“I can't reach the freezer,” he says. He's testing me back.

“Why don't you get the chair I saw you using last week and climb on that?”

He sits down beside me to think about the implications of this and I turn back to my letter. I've lost my enthusiasm. Norm and Justin are playing on my mind. I can't compare them with Tony and Melissa, who have only been apart for a few years, but even in that relationship the cracks are starting to show. When Tony left us, Melissa was a little girl who doted on her daddy. She thought she still doted on her daddy until her daddy turned up in the flesh as his old unreliable, untrustworthy self. He only stayed in Gunapan another two days after his visit to us. He told Melissa a few tall tales about the magnificent house where he lives and how he's going to have her and Jake over to stay and buy them whatever they want and he'll come back here and visit regularly. He went to the toy shop in Halstead and bought Melissa and Jake another armful of toys. Then he shot through again with Miss Happy Talee and sent a postcard.
Will call soon. Love, Dad.

It's been two weeks of silence already, and I can see Melissa hardening. It's too much for an eleven-year-old. Too much disappointment. At least she's got Terror. Terror gallops over to Melissa when she goes out in the yard and nearly knocks her over in her joy. Sometimes Melissa sits on the back steps for half an hour combing the tangles out of Terror's coat while Terror makes little moaning noises of ecstasy. There isn't a single shrub standing in the yard.

“OK, I'll use the chair,” Jake says, watching me intently to see my reaction.

“Clever boy.” Tomorrow I'm going to buy a freezer lock.

If I start up the letter writing and meetings again I might lose the few friends I have left in Gunapan. That's something worth thinking about. Will Helen ever answer my phone calls if she thinks I'm going to ask her to do the door-to-door petition thing again? Will Kyleen almost decapitate the headmaster a second time, carrying a sign? And Norm seems so tired lately, I'm not sure he'd even have the energy to turn up to meetings. He's got his Unsightly Property Notice and Justin to deal with as well.

Plus, I am aware of one particular difficulty with starting up again. Melissa. She's going to be turning twelve soon. That means her mother-mortification meter will be calibrated to a degree only matched by Swiss watch–style precision engineering. And the way she blushes means that everyone knows when Melissa's embarrassed.

It's all too hard.

“Jake, Melissa,” I call. “We're going to the pictures. Tidy yourselves up and we'll head off.”

It seems that no time has passed before Jake is standing in front of me all dressed up in his best T-shirt.

“Get that off and put on a clean one.”

AS WE HEAD
off to Halstead along the road where Norm's junkyard is the spectacular landmark, mounds of glowing red rust, the metal mountain of the south, I try to slow down the Holden enough to see properly, but not so much that anyone can tell I'm trying to stickybeak.

“Mum, you're making me carsick. Can you please drive at one speed?” Melissa pleads.

“Tell me if you can see anything at Norm's. I have to keep my eyes on the road.”

“See what?”

“Anything.”

“Well, I can see Norm and I suppose that's his son with him.”

I resist the urge to veer across the road and stare. “What are they doing?”

“They're staring at some piece of machinery.”

“That's good. Very good.” Norm's back to behaving like Norm again.

It's a forty-minute drive to Halstead and the cinema. By the time we get there, Melissa and Jake have had three fights in the back of the car. Jake's sniveling and Melissa is humming
a pop song that is driving me mad. She's told me five times already that her father's friend Talee was once an extra in a movie about a Melbourne rock and roll band. I wonder if I can sneak away during the film and leave these horrible children to be raised by vagrants in Halstead. Or perhaps I could have them put in jail and fast-forward to when they're adults. I'll bake a cake for their release.

Inside, the cinema is cool, verging on arctic. Across the aisle, in the garish flickering light of the previews, I can see a family of four children and one woman. Something about them makes me think it might be the Gunapan family I saw at the waterhole. On the other side of me, Jake and Melissa are in the trance state that overcomes them whenever they're put in front of a screen. They each have a box of popcorn and a fizzy drink.

This excursion has cost me a fortune. The kids have no idea, of course. Tony turned up with a bagful of expensive presents, and from now on they'll sneer at anything I buy them. “Why can't I have a console for the computer?” Jake asked yesterday.

“Because the computer's so old it's got arthritis and Alzheimer's. It would be like buying Nanna a skateboard.”

“I don't mind if she gets a skateboard.” He's always been a generous boy.

I wonder how the woman with four children can possibly afford to bring them out to the pictures. I lean forward. The kids aren't holding popcorn boxes, but they are eating something. Probably mixed sandwiches filled with sprouts and carrot or health bars she whips up in her free time and sells as a sideline in Halstead's trendy cafés. Other mothers seem to be able to do these things. I reach across and take a handful of Jake's popcorn. He whines something unintelligible, never taking his eyes off the screen.

At the end of the film, while the credits are rolling, Melissa yawns and asks if we can look in the Halstead mall clothes shops. Jake hands me his empty popcorn box as if it's a gift. The lights come on in the cinema and everyone starts talking and stretching. When the Gunapan family stands up I turn to ask Melissa who they are, but she's gone. She's already halfway up the aisle, pulling Jake behind her and leaving me to gather up the bags and empty drink containers before I stumble up the aisle after them like their baggage-handling lackey.

“Young lady, do you mind?” I shout after her.

When I get outside she's already halfway up the main street heading toward the mall. Jake has dropped back and he's looking past me with an expression I can't quite identify. Horror, perhaps? I don't want to look. If Jake's expression is any indication, I don't want to see what's coming. Anyway, I'm puffed out. Melissa has disappeared around the corner and I refuse to chase an eleven-year-old as if she's a toddler. We'll see how she enjoys walking home from Halstead.

I can see myself in the shop window. Jake's backpack is slung over my left shoulder and my handbag hangs from my right. I have two popcorn boxes and two soft-drink containers in my left hand. My right hand is clenched around the waist of my Target jeans, which slide down my hips like a pole dancer whenever I walk too fast. My hair has turned into a strange beehive shape from slumping in the cinema seat and, since that same action gave me a bit of a crick in my neck, my head is tilting sideways. We could call this the Gunapan shuffle.

I dump the containers in a rubbish bin and take a seat beside it. I'm not moving. One of my children has run away and the other is staring at something behind me which could possibly be the monster from under the bed. On a more
positive note, unlike in my dream of two nights ago, I am fully clothed.

“Let's go, Mum.” Jake's looking at the ground now. “Let's go, come on.”

“No.” I wiggle myself backward on the bench outside the shop and drop Jake's backpack on the ground. I know I've hidden a packet of Caramellos deep inside my handbag. I keep them to bribe the children, but since one of them has run away and the other won't even look at me, those Caramellos have my name on them. At last I find the roll at the bottom of the bag, peel away the paper, and pop two into my mouth at once. My worries disappear in a haze of chocolate and caramel. My eyes flutter shut.

It seems like a pleasant quarter of an hour, but when I open my eyes, only seconds have passed. Jake is now behind the bench and the family I saw in the cinema is coming toward us. The mother grasps the shoulders of the smallest child, who looks about five, and pulls her close. All four children are staring at Jake sniffling behind me. I'm starting to wonder—have these kids been bullying Melissa and Jake? Are they the ones calling Jake a bush pig? They don't look like bullies, but I suppose people usually don't. The mother isn't staring at Jake. She's keeping her eye on me as if I'm holding a machete and about to lunge. She gathers her children in a huddle around her as they pass us.

“What's going on, Jake?” I ask once they've rounded the corner. “Is one of those kids being mean to you?”

“No.” He's still sniffling.

“You can tell me.”

“I want to find Melissa.”

“We'll find her in a minute,” I say, perfectly aware that she's lurking around the corner inside the mall waiting for us.
I can see her reflection in the window opposite. She's standing in a small crowd watching Brian Mack and his friend Al, who are busking at their usual spot.

As Jake swings around and heads for the mall I heave myself off the bench, pick up his backpack, sling my handbag over my shoulder, and hitch up my pants. I feel about a hundred years old. When I round the corner Brian's finished his song and Al's blowing the last mournful note on the didgeridoo. The onlookers toss a few coins into the guitar case and wander off.

“Hey, Loretta, doing some shopping?” I can tell Brian's politely trying not to look at my baggy pants and worn-down heels.

“I wish. I've just spent a fortune on a family trip to the pictures. Making much today?”

“Nah, stingy bastards can barely even give us a clap.”

“Probably wouldn't even give us
the
clap if we asked for it,” Al says, wiping the mouth of his didg with a cloth.