House of Sticks (7 page)

‘Well, it is a big deal. You've got three kids, Bonnie. One only a tiny baby, really.' Mel reached to touch Jess's hair. ‘I can't believe the amount of music you've done while your kids've been small. Remember you'd go off for those weekends when the twins were babies?'

‘Yeah. But … I don't know. It doesn't seem as easy this time.'

‘Really?'

‘No. It doesn't. It seems really hard actually.' Tears slid into her eyes. She swallowed. ‘I guess it's just — well, Pete's got a whole lot more work on these days, and …' She wiped dribble from Jess's chin. ‘I mean, I can't complain really — I've got these two days with the twins in childcare, and Jess, you know, it's easy to take a little baby along …' She could feel Mel watching her. She stared at the ground. ‘I should be doing more really — I could, if …'

‘Bonnie.' Mel took her arm. ‘What do you mean, doing more? You're doing an amazing job just — well, getting through the days. If I had three kids I'd be rocking in a corner, seriously.'

Bonnie tried to laugh then shook her head. ‘Sorry, I don't know where all this self-pity's coming from.'

‘And do you know what else? There's no way I could manage work and Freddie without my mum. And Josh's parents too. No way. And your mum's … your family …' Mel released her grip. Her voice had softened, gone tentative. ‘Well, you don't seem to be getting the same kind of …'

‘My mum's crap.' Bonnie did laugh this time. ‘When it comes to helping me with the kids she's just … crap.'

Mel laughed too; her lipstick shone. There was a pause. Mel took her car keys from her bag. ‘What is it, do you think, that's stopping her? Is it just her work?'

‘No, no — it's not work. She didn't have to keep working.' Jess started whining, and Bonnie jigged her up and down. ‘After Dad died — I mean, she could've just lived on the money from the life insurance. But.' She shrugged. ‘I don't know — she wanted to work. Which is fair enough. She enjoys it. She likes being busy. And with the kids — I think she just felt like she'd done her time, with me and Luke, and …' She sighed. ‘It's complicated.'

A woman came out of the centre behind them, struggling with the security gate and a pusher in which a toddler cried, red-faced, snot streaming. Mel stepped over and held the gate. The three women exchanged smiles of removed, polite commiseration.

‘Thanks,' the woman said, and walked away. The child's wailing receded.

Bonnie watched her go. ‘My mum …' she began. ‘I don't think she enjoyed having young kids herself. She's always just talked about how she put us in crèche from six weeks and went straight back to work, and how when we were older we'd come home to an empty house and look after ourselves; how we took turns to cook dinner and stuff like that. Almost like she was proud of how much she, well, wasn't there.'

‘Right,' said Mel. ‘But couldn't you … If you just straight-up asked her to help with your kids, don't you think … she wouldn't say no, would she? Couldn't she make time?'

‘Yeah, I guess. I mean, yes, of course. But it's like — she's never offered. Her heart's not in it. Her house is totally not kid-friendly. She's had the kids for a sleepover once, when Jess was born. It's just, you know, it's just obvious that it's something she's not interested in, and also, because it's always been like that — I mean, if she'd been involved from the beginning then the kids would've developed a relationship with her. But they haven't. And that makes it harder as time goes on. Leaving them with her now would be almost like leaving them with a stranger.'

‘That sucks, Bonnie.' Mel made a face. ‘And it's not like you've got anyone else, with Pete's parents — where do they live again?'

‘Perth. And they wouldn't be much help anyway. They're old, you know — in their seventies. And Pete's brother's a kind of weird itinerant ageing hippie. We might see him once every two years. And my brother … I'd be surprised if he ever came back now. He's been in London since he finished school.' She shrugged. ‘It really is just pretty much the two of us, me and Pete.'

‘That must be so hard.' Mel flicked the blade of her car key out and then back in again.

‘Oh well. At least I don't have to put up with my mum all the time. Sometimes I imagine what it would be like if she was one of those, you know, full-on grandparents — always visiting, giving unwanted advice and all that.'

‘It'd drive you crazy. Josh's mum moved in with us for two weeks after Freddie was born.' Mel rolled her eyes. ‘I was just about ready to kill her by the end. She kept saying I was tired and offering to give him bottles of formula during the night, and that it wouldn't make any difference to the breastfeeding, blah blah blah. And of course Josh wouldn't say anything.'

Bonnie smiled.

Mel pressed the stubby black key, and her car made a demure bipping noise. ‘Still,' she said, ‘it was pretty nice having an extra adult there sharing the cooking and cleaning. Even if it was Josh's mum. I guess it's like the work thing: it's a toss-up whether it's worth it, in terms of sanity. Everything seems to require some sort of compromise.' She lifted her head. ‘Hey, did you see that thing in the paper — I think it was in one of those Sunday magazines a couple of weeks ago — about that kind of inner-suburban community?'

Bonnie shook her head.

‘It's in Northcote, or Thornbury maybe, and there's, I think, about five houses, and the people've taken down the fences between them, and they sort of — it's not a commune, they don't share everything — but they do share the care of their children to some extent, and they all have this group meal together once a week, and they have a shared vegie garden, stuff like that.'

‘Really?' Jess was notching up her whingeing. Bonnie pulled out her own keys and dangled them in front of her. ‘I don't know,' she said. ‘I don't know if I could do something like that.' She watched Jess grab at the keys. ‘I think I like my privacy too much. I mean, what if you just really didn't get along with one of the other people?'

‘Yeah. I think I'm with you on that one.' Mel spread her hands and smiled a rueful smile. ‘What can you do? You can't win.'

Bonnie wandered up and down the rows of shelves in the bookshop, Jess strapped to her in the sling. She lingered by the art section, sliding out the heavy books, turning the glossy pages. There was one about twentieth-century furniture: big, hard cover, with full-colour illustrations. She looked at the price sticker and bit her lip. It was beautiful though. Pete would love it. And he had the new job coming. Maybe she could put it on lay-by, save up and pay for it before Christmas.

‘Excuse me?'

She jumped, pushed the book back into the shelf.

‘Sorry.' It was a man — a boy, almost — younger than her. Glasses and a cool haircut. ‘Um, are you — did I see you playing guitar in Mickey Meyers' band? It would've been a while ago now. Start of last year?' He was nervous; his eyes flicked on and off her face. ‘At the Forum?'

Bonnie felt her ears go hot. She wished she was wearing better clothes. She felt bulky and squat in her flat boots, Jess bound to her like a clumsy extra layer. ‘Yeah,' she said, trying to smile that modest-yet-assured smile she'd seen Mickey do so many times. ‘That sounds right.'

‘I just wanted to say I love your playing,' said the boy. ‘I think you're a really amazing guitarist.'

‘Oh, well, thanks.' She shifted her weight and looked down at his narrow shoes.

‘So do you still play with Mickey?'

‘I've been on a bit of a break. You know, maternity leave.' She indicated the sling.

‘Right. Yeah.' The boy didn't even glance at Jess. ‘She always seems to have a new band, every time I see her play. What's the story? Is she, like, hard to get along with or something?'

Bonnie pushed her hair back off her face. ‘Oh, no. She's very easy to get along with. I think that's just the way she works. She likes to change things around — you know, keep herself interested.'

‘You're a bit of a regular though.'

She shrugged. ‘Yeah … she does get other guitarists though, sometimes.'

‘Right.' There was a pause. He kept looking down at his hands and then back up again. ‘So. You playing any music at all?'

‘Not really, no. But I think Mickey's working on a new album. So, who knows?'

‘New album? Great.' He adjusted the bag on his shoulder. ‘Well, I hope you'll be on it.' He dipped his head and swivelled on his toes, ducking away. ‘See you.'

‘Bye.' Bonnie went back to the books, bumping her fingers over the spines, angling her head to read the titles, but she wasn't concentrating. She waited an appropriate amount of time and then, trying not to be obvious, scanned the shop. There was no sign of him.

Acting casual, but feeling like a clunking robot, she went over to the music section. Hovered along to the ‘M's. Flipped through and pulled out a CD. The photo on the back showed the inside of a tour van. Soft, warm colours. Maybe they put some sort of effect on it: it looked like an old photo, those faded, seventies tones. Mickey leaning back in the middle of the seat, arms around Bonnie and that drummer — what was his name? She squinted down at his face. She couldn't remember. The photographer, whoever it was, must have used a special lens because Mickey's legs looked incredibly long, stretching from the centre-point at her crotch out to either side of the camera, where each blue-jeaned knee provided a frame. Guitar cases sticking up in the background. The schedule in thick black texta on three A4 pieces of paper gaffer-taped above the window on the non-door side.
Krefeld, Berlin, Dresden.

She smiled. It didn't matter that she knew it was probably exhaustion and a hangover, the lighting and the luck of the moment that lent her face in this photograph — her hair falling in her eyes, her smile bright white and just a tiny bit blurred — that easy, dreamy quality you saw in those classic rock photos, like in old copies of
Rolling Stone
. The illusion worked even for her. A current of something like homesickness ran through her, tugged insistently. She replaced the CD.

She didn't put Pete's book on lay-by, or search out something affordable but special for the twins whose birthday was not far off. She left the shop and went across the road. Without trying them on she bought two dresses and two tops in the size she was before getting pregnant with Jess. When she got home she'd hang them in the wardrobe and not even look at them for at least another month. And she'd reply to Mickey's email, and say yes.

THEY LEFT EARLY FRIDAY MORNING.

At Sale they stopped for lunch and afterwards all the children fell asleep. It would have been a good time to talk, but they didn't. They sipped their bad takeaway coffees and drove in silence, not even playing music. Outside the car the landscape changed. Stretches of paddocks and stretches of bush. Towns at regular intervals, like stations on a train line. The sun moved over them.

On the outskirts of one town Bonnie saw a woman emptying a bucket outside a flat-fronted white house. The entrance was set in, but there was no veranda or porch or anything, only a boxy area the same width as the door, like the narrow opening of a fort or something, unwelcoming, defensive. There were no trees in the yard. She twisted in her seat as they passed but she couldn't catch the woman's face.

At the shack they unloaded into the dark room, shivering, talking just to send their voices into the undisturbed air. She set the esky on the floor by the bar fridge and something scurried away under the sink.

‘Are there spiders here?' Edie stood close to Louie in the middle of the rug.

‘Probably,' said Bonnie.

‘Oh, oh — but I'm scared.' Edie pulled her arms in against her chest and hopped up and down.

‘Me too.' Louie hopped as well.

‘Don't worry. They don't like people. They'll keep away from us — we make too much noise.' Bonnie squatted and peered down the side of the fridge, looking for the switch to turn it on.

‘God, it's cold.' Pete slung the last of the bags onto the low couch. ‘Let's get the fire going.' He went to the wood-burning stove and clanged its door open, wiped his hands on his jeans. ‘Who wants to help me find some kindling?'

But the twins went to perch on the edge of the couch.

‘Is this Uncle Jim's house?' said Louie.

‘Yes,' said Bonnie.

‘Where is he then?'

‘Well, he doesn't live here all the time. He just comes here for holidays sometimes.'

‘Where will we sleep?' said Edie.

‘Here, on the floor.'

‘All of us?' said Louie. ‘Even Jess?'

‘We've got the port-a-cot for her.'

‘Oh. Can we make our beds now?'

‘No, because then we'd be stepping on them all afternoon.'

‘Oh.'

‘Come on,' said Pete from the doorway. ‘Who's going to help me get the kindling?'

Silence from the twins.

‘Let's all go,' said Bonnie. ‘We can have a look around.' She went over to Pete and took his hand. ‘Come on, you guys.' She stretched out her other hand and wiggled her fingers. Louie came first and took it. Edie took Pete's free hand, and like that, in a chain, they stepped out and off the narrow veranda, down the steps and past the parked car with Jess still sleeping in it, blankets tucked in and the windows down. Into the sparse trees they went, lifting their feet high over the tussocks of grass.

Pete cooked sausages in the electric frypan, boiled potatoes and broccoli over the little gas stove. They ate in front of the fire, Bonnie and Pete with their plates on their laps, the twins kneeling at the coffee table. Behind the blackened glass of the little door the fire burned, settled into a concentrated heat, red and liquid at its centre. They stared into it.

‘When's our birthday?' said Louie.

‘Soon,' said Bonnie. ‘About a month away.'

‘And who's coming again?'

‘Oscar, Frankie, Tom …'

‘Maya?' said Edie, licking tomato sauce from her fork.

‘Yes, Maya. All your kinder friends.'

‘Grandma?'

‘Yes.'

‘Nan and Pop?'

Bonnie looked at Pete.

‘No,' he said, reaching forward to smooth Edie's hair. ‘Nan and Pop live too far away. They can only come at Christmas-time.'

‘Are Nan and Pop your mum and dad?' said Louie.

‘Yes,' said Pete. ‘My mum and dad.'

‘And Grandma's my mum,' said Bonnie.

‘And your dad's dead,' said Edie.

‘Yes.' She reached to bounce Jess in her baby chair. ‘You're getting tired, aren't you, possum?'

‘I can't believe these guys are nearly five years old,' said Pete.

‘I can't believe it either,' said Edie. She straightened her spine and put down her fork. ‘Lovely dinner,' she said in an important voice. ‘Very nice.'

Together Bonnie and Pete ducked their heads, slid sideways smiles at each other.

Louie speared a slice of sausage and collected a gob of sauce with it. ‘Doug says when he was six he could drive a car.'

‘I don't know about that,' said Pete.

‘It's true,' said Louie, posting the sausage into his mouth.

‘I don't think so,' said Pete. ‘He must've been joking, Lou.'

‘He wasn't joking.' Louie's brow knotted. He chomped furiously. ‘He told me.'

Pete softened his voice. ‘Well, maybe —'

‘Actually,' said Bonnie, ‘Doug did say that.' She looked at Louie. ‘The world has changed a lot since Doug was a little boy,' she said, feeling her way. ‘I'm not sure what the rules were back then. But now you have to be really quite grown up to drive a car.'

‘You have to be sixteen,' said Pete. ‘And then you can have lessons. Your mum or dad has to sit in the car with you and show you what to do.'

There was a pause. Louie kept up his chewing, eyes on his plate.

Pete stretched, reached his arms up, elbows out, hands behind his head. ‘That'll be you one day, Louie and Edie.'

‘One day,' said Bonnie, ‘but not for a long, long time.'

Silence. Louie chewed on, his fork stuck upright in his fist.

Bonnie and Pete sat at the table with a bottle of wine. The children were two dark huddles on the camping mattresses in the middle of the rug, Jess quiet beyond them in the nylon travel cot. The glow of the fire threw the corners of the room into darkness. Over Pete's shoulder she could see her own face hanging in the black window.

‘How could a six-year-old reach the pedals?' said Pete.

She shrugged. ‘He must've made it up.' She poured herself more wine.

Pete sipped from his glass and leaned back in his chair. ‘I feel like a cigarette.' He got up and started searching through the drawers of the single kitchen bench. ‘Maybe Jim left some.'

She looked into her reflected face. ‘I didn't know he smoked.'

‘He doesn't really,' said Pete, rummaging. ‘Only sometimes. Like me.' He shut the last drawer, scanned the room. ‘No luck.' He came over and put his hands on her shoulders. ‘You okay?'

‘Yeah. Why?'

‘You just seem a bit quiet.'

Bonnie dropped her eyes from the reflection. ‘I'm fine,' she said, lifting one of Pete's hands and kissing it. ‘Just quiet.'

He went back around the table and sat down. He drank more wine, glancing around the room. ‘This place is great. Lucky Jim.'

‘It is great. So peaceful.'

Pete tapped his foot, shuffled a rhythm with both feet and one hand. ‘It's good to get away,' he said. Then he stopped his restless movement and sat straight in his chair. Picked up his glass and stared into it. ‘There's something I haven't told you. About Doug.'

Her stomach went cold. ‘Oh.' Her limbs were suddenly very heavy. She felt like she had when she got the phone call about her father, the accident — the suspended moments before the actual words were said; the not-yet-disclosed information looming, ready to crash down. That hopeless urge to stave it off, push it away.

Pete looked at her, gave a twitch of a smile. ‘It's not that serious, don't worry,' he said quickly, but his face was strained. His hands lay either side of his glass, palms flat to the tabletop. ‘It's just something I …' He swallowed, dropped his head again. ‘This thing happened, when we were young. Me and Doug. Pretty young — like eighteen, nineteen. Well, I was eighteen or nineteen, so I guess he was in his twenties.' He glanced at Bonnie, who nodded. ‘We were living together, in this share house, with a whole gang of friends. Peter Wilson, and Simon Wright, and Deano — I think you've met him?'

‘Once, yeah.'

‘Anyway.' Pete took his eyes off her again. ‘We went to this party. Some people we knew invited us — some girls. We didn't know the people whose party it was.'

Across the room one of the children stirred, moaned. They waited and the child settled.

He continued. ‘Anyway, we went, and the guys whose party it was really didn't want us there. And we were pretty messed up — stoned, and drunk.' He breathed slowly out through his nose. His voice was quiet. ‘So we were out the back, and there was this laundry trough all filled with ice and beer. And I took a beer — you know, showing off, being a smart-arse in front of the girls. But as I did it I saw the guys, the hosts, walking up.' Pete paused, shook his head, swallowed. ‘And I just gave the beer to Doug, shoved it in his hand.'

Bonnie sat still.

Pete's voice was thick. ‘And then it all happened really fast, but, basically, the guys — and they were tough, you know, older than us; you wouldn't want to mess with them — well, they saw Doug with the beer and they were like “You took our beer” and I just stood there like a …' He screwed up his nose and gave a short, hard laugh. ‘Like a fucking
coward
and didn't say anything, and then the next thing you know they're … they're just totally laying into Doug. Beating him up.'

She heard herself make a sound, a faint little groan.

‘Everyone started screaming and carrying on, and trying to break it up, get them off him. I mean he didn't stand a chance — he wasn't even fighting back. But' — he breathed again, that long, controlled breath — ‘I just stood there.'

‘Was he okay?' The words came out in a croak. She cleared her throat. ‘Doug?'

Pete kept his eyes on his feet. ‘It was pretty bad. He went to hospital. Broken ribs, and his face was pretty smashed up.'

There was a silence.

Pete picked up the wine bottle, tipped more in his glass. He looked up. ‘You know what I think about? Still?'

She waited.

He lifted the glass but didn't drink. ‘There was this moment, when they first came up, the guys, when they said “You took our beer” and everything … There was this moment, only a couple of seconds, before they started hitting him, and Doug, he did this thing, made this face, kind of' — Pete lifted his chin with a sudden, aggressive movement — ‘kind of like “Fuck you” and he took a big swig out of the beer. And then he looked at me. He gave me this look, like, I don't know, like he was saying, “You owe me.”' Pete shook his head. ‘I don't know — I don't know how to explain it. It was weird.'

Silence. She touched her fingers to the base of her own glass.

‘But you know what? What's really weird?'

‘What?'

‘He never said anything. I mean, we were living together — and he just came home from the hospital and he never said anything.'

She turned her glass on the tabletop. ‘But didn't you?'

He shrugged. ‘No.'

‘But why not?' Her voice came out too loud, and she glanced at the children and lowered it. ‘I mean — wouldn't you apologise straight away?'

‘I know it sounds crazy but no — I didn't. Well, maybe I did try to say sorry and he wouldn't listen. It was a long time ago now, and I can't remember all that well … But mostly, the way I do remember it, it was … he came back and there was just this vibe, like — I don't know, it was like when he gave me that look he'd already said something, communicated something to me, and we both knew it, and we didn't need to talk about it.'

Bonnie got up. She went over to close the curtains. They were worn and limp, with irregular patterns. Sewn from old tablecloths maybe. Before she drew them she put her face right up to the glass but she couldn't see anything. It was too dark.

Pete left after breakfast. ‘You'll be right, won't you?' he said, pulling on his jacket and opening the door. The morning glittered — you could almost see the warm air rolling out into it. He stepped onto the veranda, peered out and up. ‘Looks like it should be a fine day. You could go for a walk.' He came back to the door, leaned in. ‘Or do you want to come? Should we all go?'

‘No.' Bonnie lay back on the low couch with Jess propped against her knees. ‘We'll stay. It'll be nice. We'll see you later.'

‘Okay then. I've got my phone.'

She wrapped Jess in a blanket and sat with her on the veranda, watching the twins playing.

‘No,' said Edie, standing on a stump. ‘I'm the princess and this is my house. Your house is over there. And when it's morning time the rooster will go cock-a-doodle-doo and then you can get up.'