Pecking Disorder

Two

Two – SomethingElse

Phillip drops a ring spanner, aghast. Hiseyes bullet at Grace then Mum. There is a strained collectivegreeting. Surprise which yields to terror flickers across his facelike layered clips from a silent movie. I note the lack of eyecontact as the trio in front of me regroup. They are desperate forthe solidarity of a cordon.

Phillip never gives me the time of day, butnow I am nonexistent. My brother is five years older than me andalways makes it clear that he has arrived on this planet first.He’d claim ownership of the entire solar system if it was possible.However, today for some yet to be disclosed reason, sibling rivalryis not an issue. The continual cordon dictates I have to supporthim.

It’s the blood of bloody family.

The silence hardens once more. Mum, Graceand Phillip make their way into the house. Their footsteps are allin time. The reluctant ducks are compelled to follow the leaderthough the leader is invisible. It’s odd that Grace follows in thesame line. I collect the Ancient History notes and force a rebirthinto my briefcase. A rerun of my busy thought traffic of the pasthalf hour requires a collection point somewhere in my head.

I want to hang back hoping that the reasonfor Grace’s sudden return will be clear once everyone is inside. Ialways feel safer inside the house anyway. There are less fightsand arguments. Less put downs from my father when he is inside. Theinside of the house is home, and while often choked with tension,is a more manageable environment for me. Inside the home is a safe,nurturing energy. Female.

Once outside, home becomes house, aggressiveand male.

But in front of me now is an added strainthat dissolves those boundaries. I watch from the front doorstep asthe tight knit trio becomes a quartet. Phillip, my mother, myfather Kevin and Grace adjourn behind the closed doors of thelounge room. Normally this room is reserved for special occasions.But as this day rapidly turns to night, the lounge is a husheddomain.

I dump my briefcase in my bedroom. My sisterFiona is in the kitchen. She’s just started her homework. I enterthe adult free kitchen and Fiona gives me a look that demands ananswer.

‘Hi. What’s going on withGrace and Phillip?’ she lets fly in a bewildered whisper. Wehaven’t time for proper hellos. We’ve caught the edge ofsomething.

‘Don’t know,’ I answer inall honesty.

But I know intuitively what the four adultsare discussing is something that will affect everyone in myfamily.

I am genuinely happy to see my soon to besixteen-year-old sister. She attends the local high school. At thebeginning of the year my parents decided I could come home once amonth. It’s the second time this year I’ve been home.

I open the fridge. Jugs of scalded milk withlayers of butter colored cream shake an imminent spill. I decide tomake a full milk coffee with reheated milk.

Nothing like this at the hostel.

The hostel. s**t. Tell no one.

‘Coffee?’

Fiona pushes her books to one side.

‘Thanks.’

We both stare into the brown skin creamsforming on the tops of our mugs. The hidden tension in the loungeroom is a convenient diversion from study. I have a kindred spiritin the kitchen. Glimpses of my determination to change my thinkingand really achieve something have been quashed.

When you finally get to study look as thoughyou are doing your homework and don’t worry whether you understandwhat Xerxes did or didn’t do.

The name is exotic. All I want is a dog orcat I can name after the Persian warrior. Or perhaps Michael. MyXerxes. Forget the rest of Ancient History.

Last night floods back. All the feelings,the thoughts and the anxiety. The exhilarating highs and the diveinto monstrous lows. I want to turn back the clock and think how Iwould do things differently.

All that is me is in my briefcase. I deservean A for creating a good impression with my intentions. My head andevery thought I ever had is crammed into these flimsy leatherdividers.

Occasionally my sister and I tiptoe into thehallway trying to hear what is being said.

‘I think there’s somethingwrong with Phillip,’ Fiona whispers, sneaking back into thekitchen. She closes the door carefully. It alwaysrattles.

‘Why do you saythat?’

‘Don’t know.’

The ongoing tension of the unknown isaffecting her. She stands on the raised hearth in front of the openfire. She looks at me transfixed as if I might know something andhave been sworn to secrecy. Her relentless gaze is deep anddemanding.

Just then Mum comes into the kitchen. Shemakes for her cigarettes on the mantelpiece. Fiona is suddenlymobile. She slinks back to her homework and sits. Her eyes arestill full of piercing ammunition.

Mum shakes uncontrollably, dropping thecigarette she is trying to light. She stares into the fire.

‘Is Phillip sick?’ I askMum’s back. Fiona hits her with eye ammo.

‘Maybe,’ she replies usingunconvincing hesitation as a delaying tactic. She manages to lighther fortieth cigarette for the day and swallows an antacid tabletfor her hiatus hernia.

‘What’s wrong with himthen?’ Fiona fires.

‘He might have to go tothe doctor to find out.’

Mum turns around and asks me to milk thecow. My father would normally do this seeing that hop harvest hasfinished and he isn’t drying hops all night. Fiona is asked to helpprepare an evening meal. Mum vanishes back into the lounge roomchased by a nicotine shroud.

For once I jump at the opportunity to fleeto the outside. Knowing that my father is detained within fourwalls provides me with a sense of freedom and a time to think.

Strangely it isn’t all about Phillip. Butwell-rehearsed guilt nags me into thinking this is what I should bedoing.