My tummy rumbled. I liked the idea because I liked biscuits, and I didn’t like the idea because I was supposed to have more serious things on my mind.
‘You’ve got a long way to go.’ She smiled, even though that smile wasn’t sitting properly. Mrs Roanan led me through the front door and into the kitchen. It smelled baking good, so I thought what a good idea it had been to stop in the end. She got out the milk and poured me a glass and set it down before me. She put one, two, three, four and then even one more biscuit on a plate.
‘I’ll just go track down that bag, be right with you.’ She disappeared into a dark corridor.
I took a nibble. Not like Mum’s, but pretty good. It was warm and homey in Mrs Roanan’s kitchen. The kind of place you could fill your lungs. The tea cosy was knitted and all pink like a princess dress. There was a set of canisters for tea and sugar and flour set out on the sideboard like they were decorations. They did look good because they were made out of china like houses in a fairytale, with chimneys and everything. I bet Mum would have liked that kitchen, where everything was neat as a pin and there were frilly curtains on the window. My feet twitched, but I knew it wasn’t good manners to go looking in somebody else’s place so I ate another biscuit.
Mrs Roanan ran in from the corridor, all panty. ‘The pigs have got out. I’ll just round them up and yard them again.’
I jumped up ready to help. She pushed me back into the chair. ‘You’ll only scare them, dear. They don’t know you.’
I bit into another biscuit. Never known pigs to care about one person over any other.
Mrs Roanan got back in after a while. I’d finished all those biscuits and my tummy was pushing against my trousers.
‘I’ll pack you a few more.’
I took my cup and plate to the sink. I rinsed them off and stood them in her dish tray. I picked up my bag and stood by the table, waiting.
She tilted her head like she was listening to the wind. A growl was making its way up her driveway. ‘Listen, love,’ she said, turning to me. I could see that smile that didn’t sit properly again. ‘I’m sorry, poppet, but there was just no—’
She broke off at a knock at the door.
THE THING THAT SHOULDN’T BE THERE
It was Dad at the door. Mrs Roanan let him in, her smile still looking as if it could slip off her face any second. I saw now it was an apology. So I’d learned something. How to read those smiles.
I wanted to throw myself at Dad and hug him up good, but he didn’t even look my way. Mrs Roanan handed me the packet of biscuits she’d made and I didn’t look her way. She patted my shoulder. ‘Your mum’ll be home before you know it, poppet.’
‘Thank Mrs Roanan and apologise for putting her to trouble,’ said Dad.
So I did.
I slid into the front of the ute and hunched over. It was all black around him. I tightened myself up, ready for him to blow. But he didn’t say a word. Then I squeezed myself even harder because he hadn’t blown and because he was all screwed down. I kicked at the glove box.
‘Stop that.’
I kicked again.
‘You hear what I say?’
I heard all right.
I plaited my legs so they wouldn’t kick any more. I tapped along the dashboard instead. Then I realised Dad wouldn’t like that any better, so I tried to wrap my hands around each other and keep them in my lap. But I must have knocked the glove box because it sprung open.
Dad exploded then. ‘Leave that bloody thing alone.’
I shoved it shut quick smart. We drove on.
‘What’s Mum’s Mass scarf doing in the glove box?’
‘What’re ya talkin about?’
‘Mum’s scarf. In the glove box.’
‘Suppose she can keep her scarves where she wants.’
I felt the vein pumping in his forehead from way over where I sat.
‘Her Mass scarf is always knotted tight around her Mass book.’ I smacked the glove box with the back of my hand. It flipped open again. ‘And now it’s all on its own, right there.’
He leaned over and shut it with a bang that meant business. ‘How would I know why she stuck it in there?’
‘Doesn’t make sense. If she was planning to be away long enough to go to Mass she would have taken her scarf as well. You ever seen her in church without that scarf?’
‘Stop pushing, JJ.’ His voice had that grit of teeth.
Everything got real still and silent like the sky before the storm. And I crawled deeper in and in, keeping my lips buttoned, but it was no use: the thunder came anyway.
He thumped the steering wheel so it bounced. ‘It’s all push and shove with you,’ he blasted. ‘You never let up. No wonder your mother—’ He made himself stop mid rage.
It’s not like he needed to finish that sentence, though. He was nothing but right. The scarf in the glove box didn’t change one thing. Mum was gone. Cause of me. And he was trying to keep it from the others.
I stared straight ahead, bit into my thumbnail, ripped the top of it clean away.
He looked over. Whatever he saw in me changed something in him. ‘Just give it a bone,’ he said like the bottom of a bucket had just broken and
