Читать книгу Sweeties - Leon Silver - Страница 5

Pull the pin, hear the ping, silver ball bounce and ding … Arm over arm, legs kicking, head twisting, breathing in, then out, so ordinary a Monday morning; inconceivable that anything out of the ordinary can happen, as Abel Jackson Marvin does his usual laps in the indoor fifty-metre pool at the Health & Wellbeing Centre off the High Street Mall. Recently turned sixty-seven, swimming three times a week for the past ten years, and even though fully retired now – two years ago with all the time in the world – he’s still doing his laps at five-thirty am, as soon as the pool opens. The lifesaving staff, rolling out the non-slip mats, set their clocks by the old geezer and laugh at his daily standard joke: Rolling out the red carpet for me, luv? … Yet Roma’s pinball chant is wrapped like a fluttering banner around the twisted, burned-out hulk of a wheelchair with the two welded, gaping red and black skeletons that are still lodged in his chest – as they have been for most of his adult life. He can hear her singing now as, half-way through his twenty laps, the luminous clock on the giant screen hanging over the pool – that same clock he’s seen for the past one thousand five hundred swims – those nervous digi­tal numbers wobble and expand, glow into his face with such ferocity that he waves to swat them away, but his hand – like a ghost – slips through the foot-high numbers of hours, minutes and seconds; and the white-clad nurse, just out of focus, lifts her hand and points a long finger at the clock to remind Abel that it isn’t counting down his laps but the seconds and minutes he has left to live, and Abel feels the warm comfort of the final solution to the scorched wheelchair embedded in his chest that it will all, finally, be over. He’ll be able to expunge that burned relic with the fused skeletons, and the lingering scorched smell, and mercifully and conclusively, Roma – still humming pull the pin, hear the ping, silver ball bounce and ding – will lift her fingers off the plastic flippers and allow the silver ball to ‘drain’, and it’ll be game over, man. Finally he’ll slip off the playfield into eternal peace as he’d half-wished while driving back from The Shelter; where the avocado-clad people – clapping and singing – had marched up to meet him, as his best friend George quite rightly quoted from Macbeth: as I stand my watch upon the hill I looked down towards Birnam, and anon methought, the wood began to move … But no, the ball is punched back into the playfield: You’re not getting off that easily, mate. As the clock relentlessly advances, Abel whacks away the pulsing numbers, swipes through them again and again, buries his face in the water to drown that walking forest image, Shangri-La consumed by the inferno of Hades … and he starts lap eleven, working steadily, swinging and kicking, head rotating, his breath is forced, the realisation surges through him: his retirement tranquillity is over, no longer will he and Pamsy meet their neighbours for a drink and bite at the pub on Monday nights, nor will he attend the U3A lectures on Tuesday arvo, or babysit grandkids on Wednesday, or go to the bowling club on Thursdays, or help out at Welfare House cooking up a storm for the mates and dearies – NO, no way, that life is now terminated, the white-clad nurse points out, leaning back and sipping her coffee … The confounded clock clutches at his face with the suction of an octopus, Abel heaves, instead of his usual seal-like turn, grasping, treading water, trying to rip off the clock stuck to his face, the changing numbers invade his body like parasites, wedge in his throat, throb ominously in his left arm, press down in his chest atop the charred, gaping vestige … The other barrel-chested man in his lane stops swimming and points at Abel and the white-clad nurse’s spirit announces: You can’t exit yet, mate – have you given a full account of yourself? Abel smacks at the apparition again – be gone – but not only doesn’t she disappear, she shimmers, tormenting him, refusing to come into focus, just as the black whale – a woman in glistening black and white striped bathers – raises one hand and comically echoes the nurse’s question: Have you given a full account of yourself? The women who swim breaststroke side by side cease their chatter to tread water, and like two parrots point at him and ask Abel the very same thing, and the blonde, blue-eyed lifeguard – in her baggy blue shorts, red polo with ‘LIFEGUARD’ on the front – looks at him and misses the socket in her belt, her small water bottle takes ages to majestically float sideways to the floor while her lips move: Have you given a full account of yourself, Abel? A stack of kick-boards, dropped by another lifeguard, silently tumble to the tiled floor, Abel counts them one by one, a total of nine, gracefully bounce back up before settling to the ground … Breathing is strained, the numbers viral inside him, and his right palm itches like crazy. The overcooked wheelchair and skeletons threaten to break out of his chest to make their public debut, as a third lifesaver, running, airborne, glint of metal cylinder under his arm, is on Abel at the speed of lightning, and the giant pool hanger descends on Abel’s face as thick steam blows at him, swirling in his face, dampening his vision. Shapes float in and out before they can be identified; scrambled versions of his name hang in the air, and the nurse whispers, Not yet, mate … have you given a full account of yourself? … In the foggy mist multiple Romas – at ages seven, seventeen and twenty-seven – whip back their coiled black hair, bend over pinball machines, pull plungers back, and shoot silver balls out into the playfield humming, Pull the pin, hear the ping, silver ball bounce and ding … Keep control, flip it back to spin and thwack …

Breathing is less laboured, and the pains have settled to an irritating niggle. Wet nostalgia runs down his windscreen like racing tadpoles; no exhilaration can rival that of being back inside his Mini, the excitement machine, surrounded by swirling steam (an embryo cocooned in its mother’s womb) … Everything soft and warm, working perfectly, and lacking any application on his behalf, he’s heading where he wants to be … Ahhhhh, Abel breathes deeply, the back-seat sex smells still as pungent as in the excitement machine’s heady years; Abel rests his hands on the leather-covered steering wheel, what fun he had in that striped little car, but the voice Abel … Abel … Abel calls out again, Roma interrupts, bending down, sideways grin, gripping the plunger and pulling it back, Come back to me once more, Abel, then I’ll let you go … DING. The steaming excitement machine shoots off and even though he knows he’ll need to bounce off countless solenoid jet bumpers in the pinball playfield before he can reunite with Roma – just the prospect of being with her again, to hold her, just hold her, one more time in that brightly lit basement – his eyes are ablaze!

The steaming excitement machine stops in the small street outside his house, the first house he can remember; Abel reclines in the warm cocoon, amid the swirling steam, and a panorama kicks in, no projection required; not only does it not deny the images to him, it plasters them on his face like a moving screen. The badly worn picket fence, white paint flaked off years ago, flat plywood posts hanging off the corroded metal strip, all so familiar that Abel runs his finger along the sharp tip of a rusty nail and pricks his skin; a trickle of blood but no pain, and in fact he smiles, breathing in the intoxicating gard­enia perfume of his mother’s much-loved bushes, and the gate swings back as it has countless times before and the tall lounge-room windows zoom all the way into the little striped Mini excitement machine to seek Abel. The afternoon’s bright sun tickles the plate glass and old Abel laughs as he well recalls this favourite time of day for young Abel, the hour he has to himself, between return­ing from school and his mother bringing home his twin sisters from kinder. Inside the house it’s cool and serene – a creative environment – young Abel sits on the floor surrounded by his wooden blocks, hands working fever­ishly, on a hot-to-trot mission, eyes burning with plans to build one massive structure using every block that his father has made him since the day he was born, an ambitious plan as his massive collection fills several boxes – square wooden blocks of all sizes, ranging at least a dozen vibrant colours, hand crafted and meticulously painted – quite the logistical challenge – then the high­light, the anticipated crowning glory – that Daddy home from work will glow with pride at the finished project: Good job, son, Abel my boy, give yourself a pat on the back … And Abel, laughing, would do just that, stand up, pat his own back, right hand over left shoulder, just as he’d done since he was a toddler and Dad would laugh and hug him – old Abel slaps away the father images still ahead of young Abel, time enough to suffer them later – focuses back on young Abel, a tray with a glass of lemonade and several chocolate teddy-bear biscuits, against his mother’s instructions to snack on cheese and fruit in this gap time after school, but Abel instead follows his Granny Annie’s advice. Much to his mother’s chagrin, after any meal at Granny Annie’s, she would produce a large round blue tray with lamingtons, chocolate teddy bears, Tim Tams, and white and pink meringues, and introduce it thus, A plate of sweeties to balance out the nasties of life … Next to the afternoon’s provisions lies the other protagonist of this performance, Wags, his dog, casting silent, longing glances at the biscuits, as only a big poodle bitser with floppy ears and brown-black curly coat can ever do. Occasionally, Abel tosses the begging black eyes a choc­olate crumb, which the dog scoops in mid air, then lies down, one eye half open, scrutinising his master’s move­ments … Yes sir, old Abel smiles, in every possible way a perfect afternoon scenario – no matter what repugnant jet bumpers lie ahead on this playfield – the block building is inspirational, young Abel is well into establishing a solid foundation for his planned gigantic ‘city’ blocks struc­ture, crawling around the impressive formation, adding blocks here and there, when Wags’s head snaps up, his ears rise, and he jumps, barks, then takes off, and a moment later the flap bangs on the kitchen’s doggy door … Hmmm, Abel stops the struc­ture’s foundation work and cocks his head to one side for sounds of the dog’s return; it’s highly unusual for Wags to take off until the biscuit supply has been exhausted, and even back in the car, watching this 3D reality show, old Abel’s stomach begins to churn … Abel … Abel … his name is called again, but he fixates on young Abel once more as the boy chooses a few more blocks to balance onto the structure, but the serenity of the afternoon has been broken, Wags should’ve been back by now. Young Abel meanders out­side, the piercing orange disc rotates warmth into the boy’s chest, but old Abel recoils against the hazard notice plastering that young torso, but young Abel is of course oblivious to any omen as he calls for his dog several times, then hears him barking in the distance. Abel calls him again, louder, and when Wags doesn’t appear Abel’s face firms; this disobedient dog needs to be read the riot act. He jumps on his bike and pedals furiously into the street, dragging the potent gardenia-scent cloak right past the parked grey and black excitement machine with old Abel in it, then swings into a small passage, and comes out in the hilly nature reserve that runs for miles behind the row of houses … The sight of the reserve fills old Abel with the warm and fuzzies; swamped by the adventures with Wags exploring that bush, playing flat-out chasey, climb­ing trees, smashing birds’ eggs for the dog to lick … but the best time of all, on weekends with Dad, the three of them exploring for hours, setting rabbit traps and wandering deep into the bush, sharing discussions on wildlife, the weather and the landscape, Dad’s large backpack yielding all treasures from a blanket to ham sandwiches, Tim Tams and even a well-wrapped meaty bone for Wags, not that that’d stop him, Wags would jump up mid-picnic to chase a kanga­roo, returning puffed and empty-jawed, collapsing at their feet, head tucked … Never mind, Wagsie, Dad’d laugh, you tried your best, give yourself a pat on the back, mate … Abel’d jump up and pat the dog’s back and they’d all laugh, including Wagsie … But the best time of all was when Dad took him and Wags camping in the reserve, when they’d leave early morning straight after a hearty eggs-and-bacon breakfast, all carrying backpacks including the dog – Dad insisted that Wags contribute to carting the rations, so Mum sewed a small harness that strapped onto Wags’s back like the rescue dogs in the Alps – and they’d wander until they reached the bubbling creek where they set up camp in what seemed like their private reserve. But no matter the heavenly state of the camping site, this was truly an Ithaca journey – Dad told him the story of the journey to the mythical island of Ithaca; it wasn’t so much about the destination, but more the expedition – the adventure of getting there. Keeping a strong mind to reject imaginary monsters trying to scare them, concentrating on celebrat­ing every step; nothing could touch them. Old Abel sees the father and son tramp­ing through the bush, the boy stomping the dry leaves to a drumbeat of laughter, the white clouds drifting across the treetops as though on a conveyor belt, the sun spiking down turning the green leaves to shimmering gold. Leprechauns – from his school storybooks – with green top hats and orange beards grin at young Abel from behind the bushes. But the best – the highlight of this journey – was just before they got to the creek, they’d pass through an area of thick grass and high, dense trees, and since it was always about midday, the sun’d be directly overhead and shining down through the tall timber canopy in a cone-like shape to form a sparkling, sun-drenched cathedral. Father and son would exchange a conspiratorial grin, sharing the silent excite­ment of walking through this hushed bush space into their private world beyond, knowing that once they passed through their shimmering basilica nothing could touch them. They’d stomp loudly to announce their arrival to the local leprechaun population, then stop quietly to hear the stomping reply. Then, when they’d leave on their way back, once through the thicket, Dad’d make a ‘locking the gate’ motion, hiding the pretend key under a log for Abel to fossick for on their next appearance. In the reserve they’d spend the day fishing and exploring, then sleep, the two of them, snugly in sleeping bags inside the low tent, Wags wedged between them, but the fun­niest was that Wags, a strict meat-eater, succumbed to nibbling at the fried fish Dad had caught, not at all perturbed by the two humans’ teasing remarks – what wuss dog eats fish and chips, we won’t tell your mates, Wagsie … Here again old Abel is forced to edit out that last camping trip that negated all that came before, when the journey to Ithaca was plagued by giant cannibals and Cyclops and angry Poseidon; young Abel’s thoughts unable to block out these monsters, his youthful soul saw them stalking and threatening behind every tree and bush … But that calamity is still a long way off as, buoyed by these earlier bonding adventures through the light­house cathedral, young Abel on his bike is zigzagging up the long incline through the huge trees and bushes of the nature reserve – the bike floats on a cushion of air like Aladdin on his magic carpet – but this isn’t the case for old Abel who trembles as he calls out to the boy with his entire being, Abel, come back, but his steamy bellowing only merges with the pestering – female, soft yet deter­mined, but otherwise unidentifiable – voice calling out behind him, just as frantically, Abel, come back. On top of the hill the boy stops dead on his bike, slanting sideways, one foot thrown down, he sits frozen, mesmerised, the brutal sun blanking out the horizon, he hears a hurricane-like roar before he sees it, the mighty bushfire front racing up the hill towards him, flames higher than the trees, chewing and snapping all in their path. Black–red smoke rolls relentlessly forward like surf; a branch, whipped up by the hot wind, lands smouldering at the bike’s front wheel, the tiny flames hiss and spark, turning the brown wood black and red … As he watches his own reflection in the approaching wall of flames he forgets about his dog, loses the will to move, as the heat sears his shirt­front and browns his knees – sticking out of his shorts – like warm toast, cinders prick his face like hot beestings, the stench of his own singeing hair and his scorching eyelashes hits and his chest heaves upwards, expanding with the incubating heat. A giant, frantic-eyed, flaming kangaroo bounds right at him, its next manic hop will no doubt land right on top of the boy and his bike – the view is interrupted as a yellow plastic arm dripping greasy water plucks the boy from his bike like a scythe felling a restored soul – the boy, still fixated on the flaming kangaroo, is carried backwards, bouncing like a log in a smooth yellow armpit, he watches as the animal buckles and falls on his bike, both consumed by flames. Finally the boy is flung onto the floor of a metal cabin then bounced on his side, wedged between two wet, yellow plastic suits, to the sound of frantic shouting overridden by blaring sirens, the distance breaking away from the heat … and after the truck stops and he’s wrapped in a wet towel and given a water bottle … Old Abel swallows hard, only now is he suddenly burning up with thirst, as the boy gulps down the amazing water and catches his reflection in a truck’s side mirror – a little black, brown and red savage in charred clothing remnants, with tufts of charcoal hair so hilarious that the boy giggles – white teeth on parade in a blackened face – an image he’ll well recall so many years later as he stares into a similar mirror with Roma’s blackened daughter, Acacia, in her charred pink tutu by his side – and Abel in the car collapses back into the seat with the taste of that cool, life-saving water on his lips and reclines, exhausted, but there’s no Roma touching his face with those faith-healing hands, and the melted wheelchair and two gaping skeletons are just around his next few DING, CLANG, BING pinball heartbeats and Abel has a revelation: the game’s rules state you can’t escape from what’s already happened, because once you’re plunged into the playfield, ricocheted to and fro, Roma’s hands gripping the flippers will not allow you to drain, until you have definitely and com­prehensively, given a full account of yourself. Old Abel catches a glimpse from the side of his eye, a ghostly nurse shimmers in the back seat, arms reaching out, whispering Abel, Abel, come to me …

Abel succumbs to the pressure on his body, his arms, legs and chest are being pummelled, but it doesn’t distract him as he rolls towards his next destination. This new house is double storey, surrounded by a wild bougainvillea garden/fence – thorny vines with masses of green leaves and bright magenta flowers hang over Abel’s head like collapsed umbrellas – the concrete footpath at his feet, his scratched initials (AJM) still clearly visible, saturated with the memory of the night after the footpath had been poured, Dad waking him with finger across his lips, draping sleepy Abel in a dressing gown, sneaking the two of them out the window, coaching Abel with screwdriver to inscribe the letters for posterity … But more than the nostalgia of running his old finger over the dusty grey initials, the wild bougainvillea zooms into Abel’s face with the force of a curved 3D screen, so real that he breathes in the sharp tang of the magenta flowers as he bends over, and slips though the well-trodden gap between the bushes, contorting his shoulders to avoid the thorns, a few yards away Mum and Dad standing, smiling, one arm around each back, Mum holding a glass of white wine, Dad a beer, facing Bernie and Margaret, their best friends, smiling the same way, standing in the exact position holding drinks, between them assorted meat sizzles on the barbecue … The six kids of the two families torment a brand new kitten, Ginger, until she crawls under the trampoline to get some peace, then the two older boys kick the footy and the four younger kids jump like crazy on the trampoline to further annoy the kitten; the ideal afternoon’s itinerary recites itself minute by domestic-blissful minute. The sun burns young Abel’s shirtless back, but there’s no talk of sunscreen, the mixed grill impregnates the air with hunger as the four adults don sunglasses, cuddling kissing, drinking, teasing and whispering risqué jokes … Old Abel wishes he could peel back young Abel’s eyes to see and predict the coming fall: Bernie’s longing scan of Mum’s mini-skirted legs, Mum’s clandestine thighs chafing in reply, a tweak of her bra, Bernie’s horsey snort acknowledging signal received, Dad’s … no, old Abel can’t do this, even after all these years, he can’t find the heart to damage young Abel’s memory. If he takes this perfect image away, what does the young boy have left? A childhood minus Dad, Wags and the forest reserve camping trips? No, he leaves the boy be, leaves him to remember that rosy, shiny, secure afternoon, the height of his blissful familyhood, stretched to unfold frame by frame over the next few months like time-lapse photography, as the sky slowly pales and dawn approaches – for another bonus sunshiny day in an additional season, as all the boy’s sunshiny memories are – old Abel’s foreboding cramps are back, this time accompanied by a sunburned back – he cannot shield young Abel any longer. Abel, weighed down by his giant school bag rubbing on sunburn, ignores his dizziness and heaving stomach to drop his sisters off at junior school, accepting their hugs – One more squirrel hug, Ali – copying Dad’s morning routine, Go on, that’s enough now, off you go my two little squirrels, the teacher is waiting and off they strut, primed and jovial … then he drags himself home from school in the mid morning, pulls himself up the long, curved banister, drops his bag on the carpet and rushes to the toilet to puke his guts out. Now copying his mother Abel presses his open palm to his forehead, then another dash to the loo to shake and shudder and dry retch some more, he goes downstairs, and phones his mother’s work but is told that she too is sick, and won’t be at work that day … What are the odds of that, hey? … Abel struggles to his room, strips, puts on his pyjamas, buttons them up crookedly and takes his temperature. Picturing his mother he times the three minutes on his bedside clock, struggles to stay awake then checks the reading, he’s burning up, over forty degrees. He crushes two Aspro in a glass of water, drinks down the bitter mixture, then with relieving sigh tucks himself into bed … how proud will Mum be with how he’s looked after himself, and his sisters, when he was so incredibly unwell …

Sick, hot and nauseated, Abel wakes up to his mother’s screams: Oh my god … oh my god … I can’t take much more, please, please, stop, oh my god … Abel drags himself out of bed, groggily pulls up his pyjama pants and holding them tight tiptoes into his parents’ bed­room, his mother’s screams now fever pitch. My god, thinks groggy Abel trying to shake the sleep, she’s being attacked by a robber, and picks up his pace, but the door slightly ajar reveals something unexpected, in the reflection of the full-length mirror he can see his mother lying on the bed, legs spread wide, and his naked father, on all fours on the carpet, his head stuck in between Mum’s legs; Mum throws her head from side to side: Oh my god … OH MY GOD … on the floor next to Dad is their kitten, Ginger, trying to catch the teasing, dangling strap of Mum’s garter belt … But wait – Abel’s body stiffens, he looks away then back, rubs his scratchy eyes letting go of the pyjamas that tumble to his ankles – it isn’t Dad at all, this back is too hairy and too white … then … confirmation! The man lifts his head and speaks, Abel’s burning eyes snap open – it’s not Dad’s voice, not Dad at all, it’s Bernie, Margaret’s husband: Your cunt drips honey, honey. Then complete confirmation: Bernie’s trademark horse laugh: I could lick this sweetness forever … Old Abel in his excitement machine is swamped with the realisation: his lifelong aversion to honey was hatched that afternoon, but honey is the last thing on young Abel’s mind as Mum, with a sudden twist of head, sees a wedge of Abel’s stooped, half-naked reflection in the long mirror. Then as though a director had yelled ACTION! Mum, with a much louder OH MY GOD, bolts upright; Bernie, head clamped, is thrown off and lands sideways crushing kitty Ginger beneath him, and Abel shoots back to his room, jumps into bed, and hides under the blankets … and old Abel in the car scrambles under a blanket of lingering shame, massaging that long ago healed sunburn … if he could re-write the game rules he’d have gladly suffered that severe sunburn for the rest of his life, if Ginger could have lived, and Mum and Dad had stayed as they were on that sunny Brady Bunch barbecue afternoon … And when Jill, so many years later, made him that once-in-a-lifetime offer of dumping Abel and becoming Jackson, that boyhood bedroom image had played foremost on his adult mind – that fever-dazed boy standing, forever clutching his pyjama pants – the steel ball of his life bouncing off in an irretrievable direction.

Young Abel tries to picture smiley faces on the white clouds drifting overhead, everyone is talking and laughing and wearing nice clothes including him, but he can’t embrace the high spirit and in fact, resents the clouds, such heartless happiness! and old Abel, sitting in his steamy car, ignoring the white female phantom calling from behind, feels just as reticent, but the two Abels do have one solid ally in this sense of foreboding, the only tight-lipped one not openly celebrating is Granny Annie: she isn’t examining clouds, or dragging feet like her grandson, but is in fact standing too still, losing track of what we call movement she watches Abel from the edge of the celebrating crowd as he intently investigates the drifting cumulus masses, and then – as though it is at all possible – the scene on the wide, high front steps of the town hall is about to get even happier – Brady Bunch eat your heart out – Mum and Bernie come out, clutching hands, smiling and waving to everyone, and so, exactly, do Dad and Margaret. Mum and Margaret, in bright dresses, carrying bunches of flowers, and Dad and Bernie, in suits and ties and brown shoes, part as couples, Dad and Bernie shake hands and clap on backs, Mum and Margaret kiss, then the two couples reform, so that family and friends, gathered along the steps, line up to hug them and throw rice and white flowers, which signals to Granny Annie to finally recall her mobility – she walks over to Abel and his sisters who hang about on the sidelines – the sisters watching Abel watching nothing – and Granny Annie corrals Abel, Rose and Mary and pushes them forward to hug their parents’ knees, but that presents a logistical problem: their Mum’s knees are next to Bernie’s, and Dad’s knees are next to Margaret’s; Mum twists sideways to kiss Bernie, Dad, copycat, kisses Margaret, then again Mum kisses Margaret, and Dad and Bernie clap each other on the back, so blissful that they’d plum forgot they’d already done that five minutes earlier; young Abel is bewildered and wonders: Why are they giving each other a pat on the back? What have they done to deserve that? But the boy can’t dwell too long on this unwarranted behaviour, he’s too busy reviewing in his head the barriers he’d implanted there to reject Mum and Dad’s recent talks with him and his two sisters in the last few weeks – yep, the shields are up and intact and he has no trouble dumping those one-way dialogues straight into the rubbish bin … Mum and Dad, in cheerful tears, had smiled and kissed and cuddled him and Rose and Mary, but what they said fell like sharp, dead words, without even a touch of life or colour; Abel slinking through those thorny words, contorting right and left and not one syllable pricked his skin like the thorny bougainvillaea; his sisters refused to understand what their parents were talking about, looking to their big brother for orientation or total rejection; their silence held together until the three kids were alone in his room, even as Abel dragged his two sisters onto his bed, hugged them and cried and they cried because he was crying – whimpering like injured puppies – because Abel had his finger across his lips for silence and his two sisters would do anything, absolutely anything, for Abel – with big teary eyes and fingers across their lips they stared at him in the dark room, and knew that things were bad, if their superhero brother was crying, things were very bad indeed. For the past couple of weeks he’d secretly listened behind the lounge-room door to the argy-bargy of his parents and their best friends, Bernie and Margaret, their meetings over many hours, at first harsh, accusing, raised, angry voices, but then softer, reconciliatory declarations, even laughter, signed off by clinking glasses and Bernie’s horsey laugh, all cumulating in this mongrel town hall gathering. Abel’s sisters’ regimented lead-following on his bed is no different now on the town hall steps as the three stand in a row, with dead arms, sneering. Too much hair ruffling and arm squeezing had followed the talks that only served to confirm to young Abel that this was all bullshit, they’d been sold a dud, and he pictured the worst of all scenarios: the nightmare of Dad, Bernie, Abel and John, Bernie’s son, on the forest’s grassy earth, squeezed inside one sleeping bag in the small tent, but he can’t dwell too much on that dreadful image as Bernie bends down and firmly shakes his hand and neighs: I love you like a son … we’ll have some great times together … Shrinking away from Bernie, Rose and Mary squint up at their older brother and pull down on his arms to explain to them what’s going on, but there’s no interval to clarify the proceedings as Dad – their real dad – smile widespread, leaves Margaret and comes over, kneeling down to Abel’s level, and looks into his son’s eyes and his lips move but his words jam up like a train at a dysfunctional railway crossing; after some coughing, Dad’s words make a clunky noise inside Abel’s head, but the boom gate stays down. Rose and Mary finally loosen their grip on their older brother as they climb onto Dad’s knees and hang from his neck like they’re drowning and he’s a lifesaver, but Margaret turns out to be the real lifesaver in this shipwreck as she comes over and untangles the two crying girls and rescues her new husband who’s fixated trance-like on Abel, the young boy silently stepping back with dropped chin, while Granny Annie presses her arms to her side so as to stay motionless again, because any movement – even the minimum – might unleash punches to her son’s head … There’s a party of course, the six kids sitting together in their best clothes at their own table – if this was meant as a display of solidarity, it actually has the reverse effect: John stabs Abel with dirty looks for stealing his dad, and Abel kicks him under the table with his new solid black shoes, John’s eyes fill with silent tears but he more than deserves the pain, because Abel’s stolen dad is a million times better than John’s dumb dad who does nothing but laugh like a horse and squash cats to death.

The adults eat, drink and laugh, ignoring the cata­strophe in front of them; these two new unions are jinxed from their genesis; why, otherwise, would Granny Annie have placed on the long white tables – like step­ping stones to salvation or doom – plates with her usual selection of sweeties to balance out the nasties of life? His twin sisters hang back, their older brother hasn’t reached out to the central offerings either, and the girls suspect that indeed there are no good times to celebrate here. Mum, watching from the head table with a slowly shrinking smile, leaning forward, fingers nervously strum­ming the table while watching her mother-in-law’s plate distribution as though instead of deliverance these are indeed rumblings signalling an impending disaster – the same mum who never stops lecturing about the evils of Granny Annie’s sugar plates – gets up, takes a plate in each hand, walks over to their table and extends them as a peace offering, but to Abel it’s more like a stab in the heart. Abel’s eyes look up from the hovering plates to his mother’s crinkled-smile face, then slumps; no way in hell is he accepting a substitute prize for their stolen life, even the most gigantic plate of sweeties will not balance out the nasties this time. Rose and Mary, both hands stopped while reaching out to their mother’s offering, drop their hands to the white tablecloth with a soundless thump that makes Mum shudder, powerless before her kids’ united rejection.

Mum turns to Granny Annie and locks into a moment’s standoff that lingers for hours – as though blaming her as the leader in this resistance movement – and while Mum’s hands shake as though about to smash these hateful sweetie plates on Granny Annie’s white lace hat, twaddle rings in Abel’s head and it’s about as close to mirth as he’ll get on this calamitous day, and for many days to come, repeating in his head: twaddle, twaddle, twaddle … which had been Granny Annie’s reply when Mum had laid the separation and remarriage plans on her, twaddling it right into her daughter-in-law’s face without flinching and Abel, hiding behind the barely closed lounge-room door, had to cup his mouth not to laugh out loud … twaddle, Granny Annie said – twaddle, he told Mary and Rose who were hiding in his room still hoping for a miracle, naively believing that their last hope, Granny Annie, could change the outcome of this calamity … And in a way she had as Abel understands that twaddle is indeed a victory of sorts … Later that night of the double re-marriage, in the bed in Granny Annie’s house, Rose and Mary twig a little as to their changed circumstances, they sneak into Abel’s room as he’s lying on his back in the bed he’d last slept in a year ago when Mum and Dad had gone for a holiday with Bernie and Margaret. Now the four of them had gone away again but it’s not the same, as was made plainly clear at the over­heard drunken jibes at the party earlier: Careful, don’t call out the wrong name when the action starts … Best friends split up, marry the others, and are still best friends … so civilised – All you need is love, right? And the funniest, totally beyond Abel’s comprehension, was that his parents – the original ones – laughed heartily with all the others, but young Abel has the last laugh now as in bed at Granny Annie’s he sneers at his mother’s sharp parting look, refusing to accept her spiked accusation that weaves its way like a homing missile through the merrymakers, aimed directly at Abel’s forehead: It’s all your fault. If you had just gone to school like you were supposed to … All good and well being brave and mocking his mother earlier, but now, in bed, Rose and Mary, nervy about Abel’s long silence, try to revive their brother’s old playfulness, climbing on Abel’s stomach and asking him to make them bounce; Abel – albeit, silently – bounces them as long as he can but when he stops Mary asks, Ali, why is Dad leaving us to live with Margaret and John and Aaron and Cindy? … Ali, Rose echoes, Why is Bernie coming to live with us? Abel hopes his sisters know that discover­ing Mum and Bernie’s deed isn’t the same as actually doing it – but how can he explain this disaster to these two little girls perched on his stomach holding back tears? Abel will have to cope, he’s old enough, but his sisters are lost in a broken family, and he can’t explain to them why … He thinks back to a time when everything still made sense, a moment captured in a framed photo by his bedside, the family’s talisman. A few months after his baby sisters were home from hospital, Abel had snuck into their room and scratched their faces. Their screams woke up Mum and Dad and, when severely reprimanded, Abel had whimpered, Why can’t we go back to being just Abel, Mum and Dad and Wags like before? Mum had hugged and kissed her son, pointing out that they were now five Marvins plus dog, and taken a self-timed family photo for posterity, Abel smiling through tears, head wedged between the scratched-up twins, Mum pressed on one side holding a sign that said 5×M+D (conveying five Marvins plus dog) and Dad on the other holding puppy Wags. Abel tries to think how he’d photograph – let alone explain to his sisters – the new bastard-mix of families, but he can’t, no iconic scribbling could ever capture this mess. After that first night at Granny Annie’s, whenever Abel lay flat on his back in bed, he felt his two sisters’ ghosts clutching his neck and bouncing on his stomach and heard their little confused voices and he’d squirm; his worst predictions proved so painfully accurate, their old life, that close bond between Abel and his father, had disappeared just as Wags had in that long ago bushfire and so had his sisters’ verve in a stable family … 5×M+D was no more.