Grant Denyer has challenged us to name Ten Things You’d Find On A Beach Holiday.
‘Sand,’ Dad says.
‘Sea.’
‘Fish.’ Dad spits out the answers. ‘Crabs.’
I look at him. ‘That’s two.’
‘Shut up. I got ‘em right. Have another go.’
I sigh. ‘I dunno… Flies?’
Flies is wrong.
‘Dickhead.’ Dad nudges me, eyes focused on the screen. ‘Never been to the beach – how wouldyouknow?’
The television shouts back at him. I lift my stubby by its glass neck, stare out the living room window. Night has come. The living room is lit by the hanging bulb in the ceiling, and Dad strains forward on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, his hands hanging down.
The studio audience laughs at something.
‘Move those plates,’ Dad says in the lull.
I inhale. Here we go again. ‘Easier if you do it.’
‘I’m watching me show.’ Dad snatches his tobacco pouch off the coffee table.
I ignore him, take another pull from my bottle.
‘Harris, move your arse and move those plates.’
I look at him. I’d sayYou can’t be serious, but he can be and he is. He’s deadly serious. I found out the hard way yesterday.
I clench my jaw. Get one crutch under me so I can haul myself up off the spongy couch. Put the crutch in my left armpit, steady myself, lean for the dirty plates.
‘Get outta the way,’ Dad says. ‘I can’t see the telly.’
‘This is the only way I can do it,’ I say through my teeth.
The lurch to the kitchen takes forever. I clatter the plates into the sink, rest my arse on the edge of the kitchen table. My leg aches.
‘Get me pills!’ Dad calls.
I close my eyes. I think I might be stuck in a re-run. NotFamily Feud. Some sort of gothic horror-comedy. I can’t believe I’m back here. I can’t believe I said yes.
This is crazy. I’m no help to Dad like this anyway. These last four days, I’ve crutched around the house doing a poor impersonation of helping to keep the place running. Dad expects the house to be warm at night, he expects water to be in the taps, the toilet to flush, dinner to appear on the table. How he expects all these things to magically happen, I have no fucking idea.
It’s the same technique he used with my mother. His expectation is a fixed unchanging weight and an explosive fury follows when his expectations aren’t met. I’m so over it I can’t think straight. This is why I left, this is why I swore I’d never come back. Dad doesn’t want a son, he just wants a compliant servant –
‘Don’t forget me pills!’ Dad bawls from the living room. He’s finished with beer, started on vodka about an hour ago.
I grab the packet of medicine off the kitchen bench and stagger back through to the living room, chuck the packet on the coffee table.
‘Here’s your bloody pills. I’m going to bed.’ It’s six-thirty in the evening.
‘Good on ya,’ Dad says.
I lean for my other crutch, get it under me, limp off down the hall.
