‘Please. The pool. The real pool. With people there and I can be social.’
‘Come on, Shane. We can give it a go,’ said Midge.
Shane nodded. ‘I suppose we can think up a way.’
‘We are going then?’ Zara stood up on her toes, excited. ‘I better get ready.’
‘We’re not going now, sweetie.’
‘I better get ready anyway.’
‘Don’t forget those stockings,’ Moira said, holding out her hand, snapping her fingers. Zara pulled the stockings from her feet and stared at her shins and the backs of her legs.
‘I need to get some sun on me. I’m white all over.’
She passed the stockings to Moira, who gave them to Midge—one leg for installing now, one to stash in the glove box as a spare. He said it was best if she watched how he tied them on. The knot he used was just a normal bow, a double bow, but the tension was the important part. She best learn the correct tension in case there was trouble.
She’d just started walking to get the instruction when the baby began crying in the house. Zara froze at the sound, rubbed her hand over her shins and ran off through the trees to find sun for her legs.
‘Where’s she going?’ Shane said. ‘Looked like she just shat herself, if you’ll pardon my language.’
‘I won’t. The girl’s fine.’
‘Doesn’t look it. Better do something about that crying.’
Moira told him to get busy with his shed if he didn’t like the crying. Unless he wanted to help clean the bottle and boil it. There was formula to mix too. He said he would go to the shed. And he’d appreciate it if she could have the car back by early afternoon. He wanted to go make up with Tubbsy. He said it would be Tubbsy’s shout, given his cuts and bruises.
‘You’re not going to drink with him. What about last night? The things he said, Shane. He insults you and my daughter and you’ll drink with him?’
‘Things blow over, Moira.’
She stared at him and he had to turn away. She gave a flick of her hand and went into the house to leave him with his shame.
5
There was squealing in the engine where the stockings were slipping on the cogs, but the temperature gauge stayed steady at just under half.
The blue walls of sky closed in as Moira drove. The ceiling of the sky was just above the car roof. The road ahead rippled as if melted and the heat blew like the very air was blowing away. Breathing dried her throat. She could believe the sky wall up ahead had turned to hot liquid and she was about to drive straight through it, right through to the other side where there was nothing but outer space and she’d be lost and alone.
Not entirely alone. There would be Mathew, lying in the back, the seatbelt at full stretch around his little bed. A towel was wound up in the right window against the sun’s aim. The other window was open like a drumming fan. She’d fed him, though he didn’t take the teat well. She’d washed him over the kitchen sink, cupped water where he lay in the crook of her arm. He was clean and content as far as she could tell. Perfect for having a nurse check him.
She knew her rights and knew she didn’t have to do this. No government people could poke their nose in unless the baby was officially in danger. Mathew was not in danger. Not now. But she wanted to check he hadn’t been damaged by Zara. Some inner injury that could get worse and make him suffer or not live long. She had put her cunning hat on and was ready for them.
The maternity centre was attached to the hospital, a room off to the side with a row of floppy agapanthus for a green path. She rang a buzzer and waited and when a person came she apologised for not having an appointment. She was in town on business, she said. Just thought it would be nice to have the little fellow call in and say hello and give thanks to everybody for helping bring him into the world. And while he was here have a check-up, though it was plain to see he was as healthy as spring grass.
The person at the door wasn’t the right one for check-ups but if Moira wanted to wait a nurse would be along soon. She said she would wait in the lovely air-conditioning and sat with Mathew sleeping in her arms. Everything so clean—floors, walls, surfaces. And the smell so freshly sterile there must be someone mopping every minute of the day, she thought.
What if a nurse found damage in Mathew? How could cunning help her then? She would have to say that Zara was to blame. No. She wished she’d never come here. It was asking for trouble. Police would get involved. Mathew and Zara would be taken away.
The nurse was a chubby woman with grey-brown hair cut short like a man’s and wearing black slacks and shirt. She was bossy too. Moira wanted to keep up a cheerful banter about Zara being such a good around-the-clock mother and that was the reason she’d stayed home today, to catch up on lost sleep. The nurse was more interested in files and documents. She said checkups were for the benefit of baby and mother. Without mum there wasn’t much point. To which Moira answered, ‘Thought I was doing the right thing.’ She said it in a tone of meek apology. ‘Didn’t mean to waste your time. We’ll come back when we can. Don’t know when that would be. We live out of town and we’re always away on business.’
‘Oh, since you’re here. Don’t rush away.’
Her flabby, freckly arms reached out like a tray and Moira trusted the baby to them. The nurse wasn’t an affectionate baby-holder, no cooing and kissing or compliments about beauty. But Moira could see she was working to a system. She peeled back the little sheet he wore for swaddling and said he looked healthy enough to her, peering professionally at where the cord was cut at his navel. She said, ‘Good,’ and ‘Good’ again when she looked into his mouth. Then his eyes. She weighed him on scales, laying him in a plastic bowl. She smiled and said, ‘Fine.’ She 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 supposed to go over water but instead went over saltpan she turned left onto the highway and headed for home.
The siren went just once but was piercing and caused her to flinch and tap on the brakes in panic and say sorry to Mathew for the braking, all in one heartbeat. Her rear-vision mirror flickered blue and red. Moira pulled to the gravel verge, stopped the car and turned the engine off.
Her cunning hat knew what to do. She had Mathew to help her. She’d use his presence to get sympathy for whatever it was she had done. The policeman was a young fellow. Curly blond with perfect muscle in the weightlifting way. His hands rested on the weaponry on his waist. The young ones were nastier, Shane always reckoned. The older ones had more of a worldly style, were more lenient and polite, knowing more about life. The younger ones liked to prove they were better than you.
‘Hello, officer. Sorry if I did wrong.’
‘Driver’s licence, please.’
‘I got it in my purse, I think.’
She reached across to the passenger floor and pulled up her bag. She had a feel around inside. ‘Don’t seem to be here. I was in a rush. I had to take my grandson to hospital. He’s okay, thank God.’
‘What was wrong?’
‘He’s just been born. I panicked and needed him checked.’
As if on cue Mathew let out a hunger sob and followed it up with solid crying.
Moira put her arm over the seat and stroked him. ‘Easy, darling.’
She put on a worried face and thought about sniffing, as if close to tears. She stayed with the worried face for the meantime. ‘He needs to get home and be fed and put to bed. It’s been a big day for him. Big day for us both. Have you got children?’
‘I need to see your licence.’
‘It’s not in my bag.’
He put on a blue cap and pinched the peak as if gesturing goodbye. It was no goodbye. It was suspicion.
‘Was I speeding, sir?’ asked Moira.
He was slow answering. If he said yes she knew to say sorry at least three times. Make police feel they’re standing over you, in charge, superior, that’s the rule. If they feel superior they feel they’ve dealt with you and might let you go.
‘No. Been some roadside fires. We’re stopping cars at random. You local?’
‘Yes.’
‘Seen nothing unusual?’
‘No.’
He took a black flip-pad from his breast pocket and asked for her name and where she lived. ‘Just off Loop Road,’ she said. He asked for her phone number and she said they didn’t have one. He jotted down the rego and took a stroll around the car, bending to assess the state of the tyre tread and muffler. He asked to see the headlights on, and the indicators. Then he went to his car, sat in it with one leg out the door. Through the mirror Moira saw him talking on his equipment as if to himself. She reached to Mathew and let him suckle the tip of her finger for fake feeding. He was fooled for a second, then continued crying.
The policeman got out of his car. ‘I’ve got no matches for a licence under your name,’ he said.
‘That’s strange.’ Moira knew not to smile or hold eye contact for too long when you’re being cunning. Better to put her wrist over the steering wheel and give a casual flop of the hand.
‘I’ll need you to bring in your licence to the station for sighting. We’ll expect to see it by, ah, week’s end, yeah?’
‘No worries.’
He nodded and stood there, staring at her. He put on his sunglasses. He wanted to say more, she was sure of it. He had a quip or question he was keeping to himself.
He walked to his car. Moira waited for him to leave before she started the engine.
6
Shane was in a bad mood so Moira didn’t tell him. She’d been stopped before in other towns and simply ignored it. That was a benefit of the travelling life over settling. If she was told to present her licence at a police station they were usually on the road in a few days and she didn’t bother. Because they were settled now she would have to tell him, wouldn’t she? Maybe not. If she ignored it like always the problem might ignore her. She had to the end of the week to decide.
Shane’s mood was about Rory. You try to take the boy under your wing and he turns his back on you. He’d rather complain he was bored, go off on his own instead of contributing labour. Instead of learning the difference between Victorian-era goods and cheap modern he preferred to slink away saying he wanted to be a dragon. Of all the fantasies you could have in the world, he chooses something so far-fetched as a dragon.
The pool business was solved, though. Shane had an idea and was delaying telling Moira because while the idea stayed in him unspoken it glowed in his insides. He had no interest in going swimming at the pool, but his plan would keep him in Moira’s good books. It was a humming pleasure to know he would be in Moira’s good books the moment he let the words go from his mouth. He would wait until she’d tended to the baby and he had her full attention instead of competing with baby feeding. He sat under the porch doing his paperwork and could hear her in the house singing in a lullaby mumble. He couldn’t make out the words but the tune sounded like ‘Michael Row the Boat Ashore’.