‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Foam on top. Roast beef and gravy. Mushy peas. Might run into a few mates, have a gasbag.’
Dad’s eyes narrow. Running into mates wouldn’t be part of the plan. He likes us independent. As in: isolated, exiled.
Undefended.
‘Actually, it’s Monday, isn’t it?’ I backtrack quickly. ‘So it’ll probably be dead quiet. Col will be pleased to see us. Bit of business on a Monday night.’ I sugar-coat it further. ‘He might let us order on tick. I can pay him next weekend, he knows I’m good for it.’
I’m not good for it. I’m not good for anything. I’m a fucking good-for-nothing, but I don’t care at this point. I’ll lie my arse off to Colin Geraldson – local publican and owner-manager of the Five Flags – if it means I get one measly night outta this hole. Col might even believe me when I say I’ll pay up later; he knows he won’t get more than a sniff off Dad. I might look like the better of two shit options.
‘You’re good for it, are you?’ Dad glowers at me over the rim of his glass. ‘Good for two pub meals and a booze-up. You weren’t much good for groceries last Wednesday.’
‘Nextweekend – didn’t I just say next weekend?’ I take a neat swallow out of my own glass. Electrolyte powder mixed with water: it’s pretty disgusting, but I told Barb at the hospital I’d stay hydrated. ‘Mark West still owes me some cash from my last pay. Haven’t managed to catch up with him about it yet.’
Lie, lie, lie. Terry Watts gave me enough to cover the hospital excess, and the wound-care supplies and antibiotics for the week just gone. I got a few fifties left, then no idea where my next dollar’s coming from. Sure as hell not from Mark West. He’s a good bloke and he’s spotted me enough already.
But Dad doesn’t need to know that.
I stand up awkwardly, grab my crutches. ‘C’mon, then. We going or what?’
Dad makes me stand there while he knocks back the dregs in his glass. Tongues his front teeth. Makes a big sigh, like this is some kind of major life decision.
Then he stands up and snatches his keys. ‘All right.’
My suppressed whoop of triumph gurgles in my throat. This is not a victory. My father is driving me to the pub. Negotiating it with him, bringing him around to it, has made me break out in a sweat. Life isn’t supposed to be this much hard work, is it?
But the clean air outside the house is almost enough consolation. The breeze lifting the hair off the back of my neck smells of mallee bark with a touch of iron from the old corrugated sheets rusting by the front stairs. I don’t stand and enjoy it – my leg and arms will tire too fast, and I don’t want Dad’s momentum to slow – but I lift my chin to give the cool air access, wipe my face on my shoulder before climbing into the ute.
I chew my thumbnail on the way down Sandbag Road to the Five Mile turn-off. Dad sits quiet as we jolt along, then he leans forward and switches on the radio. Orchestra and the mournful guitars of Chicago swell in the cab.
Dad makes a teeth-sucking noise. ‘Fuckin’ hate this song.’
I’m tempted to ask why he doesn’t change the station, but I know he won’t do that. This car only has one station: Dad’s.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Not my favourite.’
‘Reminds me of your mother.’
I freeze. This is the first time he’s brought her up. I wet my bottom lip, decide to take the chance while I’ve got it. ‘S’pose she’s still living in Adelaide, then. Her and Kelly.’
‘S’pose so.’ Dad drives on, looking steadily ahead. ‘All the support requests came from there.’
Support requests?I’m not sure which I find more incredible, the fact we’re discussing this, or the fact that anybody could ever imagine my father complying with child support requirements.
‘That was a while ago, though,’ Dad goes on quietly. ‘Haven’t heard anything for a couple of years, at least.’
‘She’s still alive, though?’ I’m shocked by how thick my words come out.
‘Guess so.’ Dad shrugs. ‘The mail was from a PO box. She could be dead in a ditch, but I guess I wouldna got letters then.’
‘You’re gonna write down the forwarding address and stuff, are you?’ Doubt in my tone.
‘I’ll give you everything I got,’ Dad says. ‘When the time comes. It’s been a couple of years, like I said, but I can get in touch with people who’ll know.’
‘Right.’
He glances at me. ‘I said I’d do it and I will.’
I roll down the window to get some air, blow away the sting in my eyes. My crutches are propped on my right, near the gear shift, so they’re not bumping my injury. There’s the added advantage: they provide a useful barrier between me and Dad. Feeling protected, I decide to go for it.
