Читать книгу The Fine Colour of Rust - P. O’Reilly A. - Страница 6

Thank you for your letter of 9 January. I fully understand the concerns you have expressed and would like to take this opportunity to explain how these concerns are being addressed by your government.

When I show the committee members the letter at the next meeting they hoot like owls. ‘Fully understand!’ ‘Take this opportunity!’ It’s as good as a party, they laugh so much.

‘I told you it wouldn’t work.’ Brenda nods sagely.

‘It’s a step.’ I’m not letting her get away with I told you so. ‘The first step. It’s a game. We make a bid, they try to negotiate us down.’

‘Sure.’ She’s still doing that nod. ‘Like we’ve got real negotiating power.’

‘Shut up, Brenda,’ Norm says.

Helen is here again but the grade-three teacher is missing so Helen is downcast. No, she’s more than downcast. Her high hair has flagged. Perhaps the heat in the air has melted the gel. Whatever happened, the fluffy creation that brushed the architrave when she walked in has flattened out to match her spirit and she’s slumped in the orange plastic chair beside me, motionless bar the occasional crackle as she winkles another Kool Mint from her open bag, pretending no one can hear the sighs and crunches of her working her way through the packet.

‘I’ve written another letter,’ I tell them. ‘This time, I’ve copied it to our shire councillors, the local member, the prime minister, the headmaster, the school board, all the teachers and all of the parents at the school.’

Silence. Kyleen opens her mouth and closes it when Maxine jabs her in the ribs. Norm flips through the pages of minutes in his hands. The air is close and still and next door at the Church of Goodwill meeting someone is talking loud and long in a deep voice.

‘I spent our whole budget on photocopying and postage,’ I go on. ‘You’ll get the letter in the mail tomorrow.’

‘Is that why we haven’t got biscuits?’ Trust Kyleen to ask. I’ve always wondered how many of them only came for the biscuits.

‘I buy the biscuits,’ Maxine answers. ‘I didn’t have time, that’s all.’

We fall back into silence.

Eventually I speak. ‘We could give up. Let them close the school – we can carpool to get the kids to Halstead Primary.’

No one moves. Brenda’s staring at the floor. I’m expecting her to jump in and agree with me. Her house is painted a dull army green and her clothes are beige and puce and brown and her kids stay out on the streets till eight or nine at night as Brenda turns on light after light and stands silhouetted in the doorway with her cardigan pulled tight around her, waiting for them to come home. She turns up to my meetings as if she is only here to make sure nothing good happens from them. But tonight she reaches over to pat me on the knee.

‘Loretta, I know it won’t work, and you probably know deep down it won’t work, but you can’t give up now,’ she says.

Kyleen stands up and punches the air, as if she’s at a footie match. ‘That’s right! Don’t give up, Loretta. Like they said in Dead Poets Society, “Nil bastardum”,’ she pauses, then trails off, ‘“carburettorum”…’

‘“Grindem down”?’ Norm finishes.

Next day, Norm’s cleaning motor parts with kerosene when I knock on the tin frame of his shed.

‘Knew it was you. You should try braking a little earlier, Loretta.’ He doesn’t even have to look up.

‘Norm, what happened to your forehead?’

‘Bloody doctor chopped off half my face.’

‘Oh, God, I knew it. I knew something was wrong with that patch of skin. Not skin cancer?’ My heart is banging in my chest.

‘Not anymore.’ He reaches up to touch the white bandage, which is already covered in oily fingerprints. ‘They think they got it all.’

He dunks the engine part into the tin of kerosene and scrapes at it with a screwdriver. I want to hug him, but he and I don’t do that sort of thing. I’m going to buy him sunscreen and make him wear it, especially on those sticking-out ears of his. I’ll buy him a hat and long-sleeved shirts. I can’t imagine life without him.

‘Mum, I found some flat tin.’ Melissa is in the doorway, shading her eyes with her hand and watching Jake teetering on top of a beaten-up caravan, his arms whirling like propellers.

‘Jake, don’t move,’ I scream.

My toe stubs a railway sleeper as I bolt towards the caravan.

He was probably fine until I panicked. His eyes widen when he looks down and realizes how high he is. His first howl sets off the guard dogs. His second howl sets off car alarms across town. By the time Norm and I coax him down we’ve both sustained permanent hearing loss. I hold him against me and his howls ease to sobbing.

‘Come on, mate, it wasn’t that bad.’ Norm lifts Jake from my grasp and swings him down to the ground. ‘I’ll get you a can of lemonade.’

Jake takes a long, hiccupping breath followed by a cat-in-heat kind of moan as he lets out the air.

‘Mum! I told you, I found some.’ Melissa pulls me, limping, to the back of the yard.

My toe is throbbing and I’m sweating and cross. I wonder why I don’t buy a couple of puce cardigans and sink back into the land myself, like Brenda or that truck.

We drag the bits of tin to the shed where Jake is sitting on the counter listening to the golden oldies radio station while Norm scans Best Bets.

‘Have you got any paint for this tin? I’m going to make signs for the school.’

Norm shakes his head. ‘You’re a battler, Loretta. And I suppose I’m expected to put them up?’

‘On the fence.’

One of my best dreams is Beamer Man. Beamer Man powers his BMW up to the front of the house and snaps off the engine. He swings open his door, jumps out and strides up my path holding expensive wine in one hand and two tickets to Kiddieland in the other.

‘We’ll need the children out of the way for a week or so,’ he explains, ‘while I explore every inch of your gorgeous body.’

‘Taxi’s here. Have a lovely week.’ I can feel his eyes on my effortlessly acquired size-ten torso as I give the kids a gentle push out the door.

They run happily to the taxi, clutching their all-you-can-eat-ride-and-destroy Kiddieland tickets, then Beamer Man closes the front door and presses me against the wall.

‘Mum, you’ve painted “Save Our Schol”. And you’ve got paint on your face,’ Melissa interrupts to tell me before I get to the good part.

Why did I decide to do this in the front yard? My arms are smeared to the elbows with marine paint, and I’m in the saggy old shorts I swore I’d never wear outside the house. Imagine if Harley Man or Beamer Man went by.

I have a terrible thought. Did Norm mean battler or battleaxe? The school had better be worth all this.