Pecking Disorder

Four

Four – StayingQuiet

There are six for tea. Relative silenceattends as well. It requires extra space. The family take theirregular places and Grace is next to Phillip. I sit opposite myfather. Never dad always my father.

Tonight though, he is the ice breaker andthe conversationalist. It’s as if he’s trying to create a goodimpression. The great protector of a family that appears to beteetering on the edge of some catastrophe.

‘How’s the hostel,’ heasks me in his usual demanding manner which is tempered a littlebecause Grace is present.

At once I am back in the deep end relivingThursday night. I wish it was a question about school. I ampetrified anything that comes out of my mouth will be totallyunconvincing. I know where his line of questioning is heading. Ifreeze. I pray nobody sees me grapple with my response. Luckilythough there are several stunned mullets sharing a meal. No one isinterested in me or my city life. Thank God.

‘It’s okay,’ I eventuallymutter, curt and disdainful, knowing that a predictable line ofquestioning has just started.

‘Just okay, eh’? My fatherprobes further. I sense he is half interested in me responding butit is a diversion tonight. He uses his strong physical presence toprevent attention being drawn to his own feelings. His surly natureis being challenged. Yet he persists. He has anaudience.

‘Met any nice Sheilas atschool yet?’

I glance around the table at everyone. Graceshudders. Mum half chokes on the steak which always causes herreflux problems. Phillip blushes tomato red. I fear he mightcombust. Fiona looks at me and everyone else, smiles awkwardly thenreadies her eyes with fresh ammunition. She has boyfriends galore.My father never asks her about her boyfriends.

Do I have a girlfriend?

I refine my father’s crude inquisitionpausing before I answer. I eyeball him with sufficient resentmentto disarm him.

‘No.’

It works. The rest of the meal is eatenwithout further words. The adults are preoccupied with informationwithheld from my sister and I. Everyone chews with discontent.Eighty One’s stomachs gurgle through my temples. It is the art ofcud that I choose to remember.

The enforced quiet gives me a chance tostrengthen my armor. I resolve to make last night disappearcompletely. I have to forget Michael forever.

People don’t do what we did last night. Youcould be gaoled.

But the undoing is impossible. Like Mum I’mconvinced my stomach contents will force my eyeballs onto thetable. The home grown steak is medium rare. It lays wounded on mydinner plate in its final oozing puddle. I stare at it and attemptto mop up mock cannibalism. I’ve borrowed Eighty One’s eyes to viewit all. I hope there are no more questions. My father has to workhard at something. He has no more energy for his audience. No morequestions. No more put downs.

Phillip is being spared the post mealinquisition which is curious. He still burns red raw. There seemsto be an uneasy truce.

Father and he may have had an argumentearlier in the day. Some farm related matter. What’s new?

As first born he is due to inherit the lotonce he ties the knot with Grace. But my father wants perfectionfrom him. Phillip has to take that on board too.

The six underdone steaks disappear. Theadults migrate. Back to their secret meeting. Fiona and I clean upeverything. The smell of half cooked meat mixes with cigarettesmoke. A suety smog envelopes everything. The same bitumen from theBrooker and the 1800 has been dumped. My sister and I work aroundit and through it. Our distress builds. We are digesting still.Esmeralda grunts and whines outside.

Someone will have to keep an eye on her.

I continue tidying the kitchen. But it’s afutile cycle. Eat and clean. Clean and eat.

Wonder whether the lounge dwellers havesimilar considerations.

I slip a kerosene tin of sheep’s guts forthe dogs onto the fire. I figure the smell already in the kitchencan only be enhanced with the bubble of offal. But all this meansmore chores. Nevertheless it will help delay the answers no onewants to hear. And Fiona and I both have heaps of homework. Whilewe want to find out what is happening the imagining is prolongedtorture.

And we know it’s ugly already.

Closed doors means punishment but whose?

I flinch as I position the tin on the edgeof the fire. The contrast between home and Yurnadinah hits me. YetI appreciate the guts in the bucket. It’s country to the core. Bigtime. Small minds. It’s another way of cautioning me. To stay awayfrom Michael. I am from a small community. Anything and everythingis everyone’s business. It is seen. Heard. Talked about. And passedon.

They all think alike.

‘Do you know anythingmore?’ I ask Fiona daring to come out of my thoughts.

‘No. Wish someone wouldsay something. It’s something awful about Phillip.’

‘Why do you thinkthat?’

‘Why else would Grace comeback in such hush hush circumstances?’

I decide to play dumb. To ignore my ownobservations of Mum and Grace. But I know this won’t last for long.I am itching to find out why Grace is back home too. It’s obvioushappy wedding preparations aren’t being discussed. Jumping toconclusions isn’t the thing to do. But intrigue is undermined.

Keep calm for Fiona. Soon we have the tablecleared, the washing up done but a kitchen that smells like anabattoir. At least the smell of cigarettes is undetectable for thetime being. Fiona and I sit either end of the table with ourhomework in piles. We try to focus.

Mum emerges from the lounge room. Shehurries to the fire. The tin of guts occasionally spills on the hotcoals. She coughs a brutal cough which ends in a run ofuncomfortable burps. Again she makes sure she has her back tous.

To confront she has to shield.

Realizing that there are no cigarettes sherips open a new carton from the cupboard to the right of thefireplace.

She turns around hastily, unwrapping thepaper and asks me to take the dog tucker off the fire before I goto bed. Her head is chased by a replacement halo as she swallowsanother Mylanta tablet.

Fiona looks at me and then together we botheye her.

‘Your father is takingPhillip to the doctor. He is on the phone at themoment.’

‘Phillip or Dad?’ Fionapresses.

‘Your father.’

We want Mum to tell us more. We stare at heranticipating. Without looking she shifts an ash tray full of buttswith her left arm along the mantelpiece. It looks like EasterIsland. With her right arm she drags another ashtray into itsplace.

The halo’s still in place. Will it turn tothorns?

‘What’s wrong withPhillip?’ I ask. My impatience gets the better of me. I am soon tobe an adult. Five hours of secrets has made the innocence ofchildhood far preferable to the expectation ofadulthood.

‘I can’t really say.Hopefully the doctor will have some answers?’ Fiona quizzesMum.

‘Does he have to go tohospital or something?’

‘I don’t thinkso.’

‘What do you mean youdon’t think so? What’s wrong with him?’

I challenge Mum. I am upset and confused butI see she doesn’t want to say anything more. The sound of a doorclosing and two sets of footsteps walking quickly up the hallway tothe front door is an indication that the lounge room is finallyempty. Grace sticks her head around the kitchen door and speaks toMum.

‘I guess I’ll be goingtoo,’ she says to Mum. ‘I have arranged for Dad to pick me up atthe doctor’s.’

‘I’ll see youout.’

Mum does a double take. Her words to Graceare a mix of anger and sympathy.

No longer any symbiosis. She hurries behindPhillip’s fiancée. Grace says goodbye to Fiona and me.

‘See you both tomorrow,’she calls out, her voice trailing off up the hallway.