And he speared a spud and held it aloft, waiting for them all to follow suit, which in the end they did, openmouthed with amazement. Yes, charge your forks, and here’s to Beryl, a jolly good fella.
To Beryl, they all said, lamb, spuds, or just gravy on their forks, if that’s all they had left, and they bit and munched, following his lead — even Oriel whose face led you to believe she was eating live bullant.
Nun better for our money, said Lon, who got a blow from everyone in reach except Beryl herself.
Bless you all, she said.
We’ll smuggle icecream in, eh, Dad, said Quick.
Ah, Beryl laughed, you’ll bring the Church to its knees.
I’m told that is the correct position, said Oriel stone-faced.
In the brief, hysterical silence to follow, Lester said:
I do believe your mother made a joke.
Their eyes were as big as hardboiled eggs.
Ticking
Sam Pickles opens a gate across town with his stump sparking like a cut cable.
The light goes out of the night sky a moment. The pig hoots and bawls. Fish goes to the window stormbrowed. A man stands in the street across the road with his great timepiece ricking and ticking.
Lester came back from dropping Beryl off. Everyone slumped round the cleared kitchen listening to the queer rattle of the gutters.
I’m goin prawnin, said Oriel.
Thay all just gawked.
Not really the season, Mum, said Quick. November at the earliest.
There’s always prawns in the river. There’ll always be something.
Brrr. I’m listening to the wireless, said Elaine.
Me too, said Red.
Yeah, said Lon.
In the river? murmured Fish, building something out of his hands.
You’ll be in bed, Fish.
I’ll tell you stories, son, said Lester. He looked darkly at Oriel.
Come on, Quick, she said.
Eh?
Get the net and get your togs on.
It’s cold, Mum.
Goin on me own, am I?
Quick stood by the big old wireless and sucked his teeth. It’s givin in, he thought; it’s too early to be givin in.
And I haven’t seen him for two years, Oriel said to Lester.
Quick sighed and gave in. Heading for the door, he muttered: It’s just silly.
Everyone else can be silly all day long in this house, so why not me a couple of hours in me lifetime?
Out in the water it was cool but not quite cold. From the shallows outside Pelican Point where all the bigboned birds nested restlessly in sleep, Quick and Oriel could see the lights of Mounts Bay Road, the baths, the party glow of a ferry coming through the Narrows. The whole city seemed to lay itself flat upon the water. In summer there’d be fires on the beach and the sound of children, smells of boiling prawns, the lights of kids chasing cobbler along the shore with gidgie spears. Now there was just the sound of the two wading and the triangular net slushing behind between the two upright poles.
You know, this is the first time I’ve been prawning since Margaret River, Oriel said.
Since Fish you mean
Yes, I spose that’s what I mean. Do you still blame yourself for it?
How did you know about that?
I’m your mother. Besides, it’s obvious. Fish was everyone’s favourite.
You mean it’s true — he was the favourite?
Oh, people say they don’t have favourites when it comes to children, but you know, son, it’s a lie we tell to protect the others.
So you did love him more than the rest of us? Quick’s voice was dead with hurt.
Wasn’t he your favourite, Quick?
Quick waded. A small fish skipped away from him. All around his body was an aura of phosphorescence.
Didn’t you love him more than all of us? Don’t you still love him more? Haven’t you always had Honour Thy Retarded Brother as your number one commandment? You see, it hurts to know you’re not the favourite whoever you are, child or parent. Did you feel guilty about leaving us, or about leaving Fish?
Why do we have to talk about this, Mum?
Because we’re family.
Jesus, I hate this family stuff. It makes me sick! I don’t need all this.
It’s all we have.
What?
Each other.
Oh, come on, Mum.
You’re scaring the prawns away.
There aren’t any bloody prawns — Jesus Christ!
Don’t say that.
Oriel pulled the net and tried not to show exhilaration at having him here like this, at the two of them talking like adults together. There was something hard and resistant in him now, something he’d grown in being gone, and she knew it had been worth the hurt.
Why are you so bitter? Because of your family or because of yourself?
What dyou mean?
Do you hate the fact that you come from … well let’s just say crack troops.
Weirdos, Mum, flamin whackos.
Or is it just the old business of feelin guilty about being a survivor?
Quick almost stumbled at that. It went deep into him.
What the hell would you know? You don’t know the first thing about feelings, certainly not mine, and damnsure not about what I feel about Fish.
I know about bein a survivor. You think it’s your fault he died. You think it should have been you. You’re paralysed with this thing that’s eatin you, and you don’t know that it’s rubbish.
You don’t know a damn thing about it, Mum.
She thought about her mother and sisters up in the house cooking like picnic steaks while she lay helpless in the cellar, she saw the bullet torn wallet of Bluey her half brother with its black crust of ink and blood and the King’s stamped signature on the slip of paper. And she could feel Fish’s chest under her fists as she beat life into him with the sky kiting over her, silent as death. She pursed her mouth with her teeth set behind them.
Have I been a crook mother?
Quick sighed. She was upset now. He could feel the explosion in her.
No, Mum, of course not.
Do I lie?
No.
Do I cheat?
No.
Steal?
No.
Fornicate?
Well, I’ll have to check on that with the neighbours. I reckon the tent’s a dubious sign. And to his complete surprise, she laughed.
Don’t be a drongo, Quick.
He pulled the net. Now they were inside the bay at Crawley where the uni glowed like a cathedral up there behind the peppermints.
What’s wrong with me?
Mum.
Carn, what’s my problem, Quick?
Quick had never known his mother to be like this. It was exciting and unnerving. He could no longer tell how she’d react. It was like having a dead shark in the boat. A dead shark always seemed dead enough, but the buggers had a habit of coming to life and taking your feet off.
You don’t have enough fun, maybe, he ventured, a little breathless.
She made a little popping sound with her lips. It sounded ominously slight.
No one takes me to dances anymore.
Geez, Mum, you’re always at dances.
Yes, and I’m either organizin them or playin the piano. Your father’s always on the stage, and I can’t even remember if he knows how to dance. I used to dance with my daughters until I lost out to men, and Heaven knows I dance better than every one of them. And my sons never stooped to dancin.
Stoopin’d be right, thought Quick. It’d be like dancin with a teachest. But she’d made her mark; she was right enough.
Let’s face it, Mum, he said, suddenly reckless with courage, you do everythin better than anybody. It’s just that you’re flamin bossy.
She laughed. I’m glad you see things my way.