Golden Boys (12 page)

Freya finds she's thought of something curious. She burrows into the grass and the stringy shadows beneath the clothesline and asks, ‘Why did you and Dad get married?'

Her mother is hanging the washing – she has a systematic way of doing so, socks pegged at the mouth, trousers by the cuffs, dresses at the hem, shirts open so their empty arms reach beseechingly for the ground. Freya knows it causes her mother real anguish to see clothes hung another way. It's a sunny afternoon but Elizabeth does the laundry on every day that isn't determinedly raining. ‘Oh,' she answers airily, ‘I can't remember. It was a long time ago.'

But Freya knows it wasn't so long ago. She is nearly thirteen, so thirteen years is a lifetime to her: but she knows her parents bought this house – her white weatherboard house – soon after they got married, not long before Freya was born. Not much more than thirteen years ago. She lies with her nose level with the spikes of the grass, watching her mother bow to the washing basket, choose a garment – one of Joe's shirts – to suit the available length of clothesline, pluck three pegs from the tin – always three pegs for a shirt – and hang the shirt with heron-like jabs at the line, tweaking it when she's finished so the sleeves open, the collar jerks straight. ‘I suppose I wanted to marry him,' Elizabeth says, bending again. ‘I must have liked him.'

‘You
suppose
?'

‘Yes,' she says testily, ‘I suppose.'

Freya watches her. She can be standoffish and quick-tempered, her mother, known to laugh at her serious, fussy, equally quick-tempered daughter. But Freya refuses to be deterred: she has a right to answers. There's something hard at her elbow, and she prises a peg from the dirt. It's faded and snaggle-toothed, a tiny blue crocodile. ‘Was it because . . .' She pauses, making the crocodile bite. ‘Was it because of babies?'

Her mother looks at her, and Freya's gaze skids away: it has always been difficult for her to meet her mother's eye. In many ways, she thinks, they are strangers. Freya was born, and fast after her came Declan and Syd, and by the time Marigold arrived Freya had shouldered the responsibility of raising herself. She is often called on to help with the children, her mother expecting her to be capable, which she is – but Elizabeth doesn't keep track of Freya, she doesn't know what her daughter wants or worries about, and she has no time to find out. And that's understandable, Freya accepts it. If she is nervous at the prospect of making her way alone through what awaits her, she also knows that she has courage. She knows, too, that her mother's advice wouldn't necessarily be the best advice. She, Freya, does not want to spend her life doing laundry.

‘Because of babies?' her mother echoes. ‘Everyone had babies in those days.'

‘But is it why you married Dad?' Freya presses. ‘Because of babies? Did you want them? Did Dad want them? Or did you only want them because everyone else had them?'

Her mother is easily made cross: she swats Declan's jeans with the back of a hand. ‘Oh, I don't know,' she says. ‘You're like a dog with a bone, Freya. I married him because I wanted to marry him, that's why. He was nice-looking. He was a good dancer. All the girls liked him.'

Freya can't ask,
But did
you
like him – did you love him?
because she would choke on the words, love being something never mentioned in the Kiley household, their conversations all being about food and television and Declan's football timetable and whether Marigold can have a pet mouse. Never the kind of conversation Freya's had with Rex Jenson on the deck. And even if she could find a way to ask, her mother might answer that no, she never loved him, or that she thought she did and found out too late that she didn't. It is dangerous to ask questions, Freya sees. And, spooked, she would let the subject die if not for Elizabeth saying curtly, ‘You don't need a man to be happy,' which makes her daughter look up and say, ‘What?'

Her mother is poking through the tin as if somewhere in its depths is the most important peg of all; she's frowning, irritated. ‘Never think you have to have a man in your life,' she says without looking up. ‘You don't. They make you think you do, but you don't. I was too dumb to know better, back then.'

Freya is astonished to hear this; and afraid. ‘What about kids?' she asks. ‘Do you need them?'

‘Kids are nothing but a worry,' her mother replies. ‘You worry about them from the moment they're born. No, never have children, Freya.'

Freya feels shocked, almost bamboozled. ‘But Mum,' she says, ‘aren't we – good things?'

Elizabeth straightens to the clothes hoist and spins it expertly, so the clothes flap like dank wings around her. ‘Sometimes you're all right,' she says.

Freya considers her in silence, struggling to understand the moment she is living through. She knows her mother loves her, and that she's only ever rough because it's easier and quicker than being smooth; still, she wishes they could talk properly, like proper people do. If they could talk properly, Freya might ask, now they're speaking of such things, if there's to be a baby; yet she's also unsure if she wants to know. She lingers while her mother hangs a few more clothes, then gets up and walks into the house. She has been putting this off, but now is the time.

In the lounge there is a sideboard, and in the sideboard's cupboard are the family photo albums. Freya loves the albums, and knows every photograph in detail: she can identify each bald baby even when its own mother cannot. It has been Elizabeth's sole extravagance, the photographing of her children as they've grown. The pictures are a luxury, and Joe resents the expense, so Elizabeth tries to save money by crowding into each photograph as many children as will fit. And here they are, the Kiley offspring in shades of black and white and, more recently, in muted colours that make the photographed world look rather rancid. They're holding kittens, dressed for parties, standing in a row under the pine tree in the yard, crowding around the big pram, sitting at a miniature table on miniature chairs. Here they are at the zoo, the beach, under sprinklers, squeezing dough, posing in oversized uniforms on the first day of school. Freya is photographed as frequently as her siblings, her hair growing longer and darkening from white to fawn, her face growing thinner, gradually beginning to lose the race to stay taller than Declan. She's the girl holding Dorrie's toddler hand, hoisting the newborn Peter. There she is, nine years old, astride the purple bike she was given for her birthday, its rear wheel fanned by the elastic strings of the skirt-guard. She used to ride it often, but rarely does anymore. She is growing up, there will be no more photos of her rat-haired and grinning from running under the sprinkler.

At the front of the album are the wedding pictures – only three, but each is large enough to take up an entire page of the album, and they're printed on thick paper with the signature of the photographer looped across a corner. Her mother and father stand at the doors of the church, freshly married when the shutter snapped, his suited arm around her ivory waist, and although there must have been guests at the wedding – friends, bridesmaids, Elizabeth's parents and brothers, Joe's older sister – they stand alone, a pair, looking at the camera as if it has something to say to them. It's difficult for Freya to decide if her mother is right – if Joe is handsome. He looks well-groomed, amused around the eyes. Elizabeth is wearing pearls at her throat and in her hair. More than anything, they are young. Freya looks at them, looks past them into their future of the weatherboard house, the rowdy children, the washing basket, the printing machines. Thirteen years ago, her parents knew nothing about this world that awaited them; Freya has never known anything else. If she had been there, a guest at her parents' wedding, she wonders what she would have told them. You don't need a man, never have children, you will regret this, the heart is wicked above all things.

With great care she prises the first photograph from the album, mindful of bending or tearing it. Her mother's habit is to write, on the flipside of each image, the name and age of those pictured, as well as the location and date. It's a habit that fills a couple of hours each time an envelope of prints comes back from the chemist, but Elizabeth swears it must be done or else she'll forget everything of which the photograph is meant to remind her. And sure enough there is her handwriting on the flipside of the photograph, recording her age and Joe's age and, as Freya has known it would, the date. She stares at it glassily for a time, and around her the house breathes and goes on. The schoolbags, the cups in the sink, the volume knob on the television. The station wagon in the driveway, the branches stacked behind the garage, the holes in the fibro walls of the shed. The swing near the back fence hanging from its steel frame, a long leg of which javelins out of the ground if the swing is swung very high and forcefully. Her mother, who has moved into the kitchen to cobble together a dinner over which the children will moan. Sometimes, if their behaviour at the table is particularly deplorable, she will take her plate and go to eat in her bedroom. Probably she's glad of the excuse for some peace, but her departure always makes Freya feel as grey as a gravestone.

She smooths the photograph into place fastidiously, and drapes the plastic sheet down on top of it. Then she slides the album into the sideboard and closes the cupboard with barely a sound.

Syd has been to the milkbar to get the milk and when he arrives home, after a longer-than-necessary journey, dinner is being served in the kitchen. He puts the milk in the fridge and takes his place opposite Declan and beside Marigold, a corner seat with his shoulders to the wall. They have a plain wooden set of table and chairs, and Syd likes this furniture very much. He likes it when supermarket bags are sprawled across the table's waxy surface, he likes it when tea-towels, hung to dry over the backs of the chairs, go stiff enough to stand up on their own. Tonight's dinner is something the children adore, sausage casserole with rice and beans. Their mother is always scrupulously fair about quantity and quality. No child likes to see another receiving more or better than themselves. Declan is her favourite, they all agree about that; it doesn't mean he can be better-fed than the lesser lights.

Syd drops into his seat saying, ‘When I went past the Jensons' I saw Avery and Garrick on the BMX. Garrick was pedalling and Avery was riding on the handlebars.'

‘That boy is not long for this world,' says Elizabeth.

‘I hate Garrick,' says Marigold.

‘You hate everyone,' says Dorrie.

‘Yeah.' Marigold sighs.

Peter is sitting in his highchair, which he loathes. He wants a proper chair, the same as his siblings; already he is wasting his life trying to catch up to them. He squirms and says, ‘Let me out!' and Declan, reaching over to stuff him back behind the tray, asks, ‘Where was Colt?'

‘I didn't see him. Or Bastian.'

‘The person I hate the most is Avery's grandpa.' It's Tuesday, and Marigold is still wearing her school uniform, a dress dappled blue and white and stained down the buttons with orange cordial. ‘I bet Avery would rather fall off the handlebars and die, than live with that mean old man forever.'

‘You don't even know Avery's grandfather,' says Syd.

‘We know him,' says Dorrie mysteriously.

‘Yeah. He walks past the house and we see him. He looks at us.'

‘He should mind his own business,' says Dorrie. ‘Old coot.'

‘Don't say that, Dorrie.' Their mother ladles casserole onto a plate, piles up rice and beans around it, and sets the plate aside. This is their father's dinner, and the children know not to touch it. They don't know where their father is, and they don't remark on his absence. Now he thinks of it, Syd can't remember his father ever eating at the table with them – which is good, because there's not enough space for another chair. When their mother takes her seat they are allowed to start eating. ‘That's not a nice thing to say,' Elizabeth tells her youngest daughter.

‘He
should
mind his own business, though.' Marigold shakes the soy-sauce bottle over her rice, sprinkling a black rain. ‘Me and Dorrie were outside today, and we were playing, and Avery's grandpa came past, I think he was taking a letter to the box, and he looked at us, and then he stuck his nose in our business.'

‘What did he do?'

‘Well, we were pretending that Dorrie was a puppy, so she had a leash – it was one of Dad's belts. And Avery's grandpa told us to take the leash off because it was dangerous. And it wasn't dangerous! Dorrie wasn't even hurt.'

Dorrie lifts her little pie of a face and smiles. ‘See?'

‘But we took it off,' continues Marigold, shovelling black rice onto her fork, ‘and when he'd gone I put it back on, because Dorrie had to have the leash, that was part of the game. And then a few minutes later he walks past again and says,
What did I tell you? Take that rope off
– it wasn't even a rope! It was Dad's belt! –
before that child is killed!
 '

‘So what did you do?'

Marigold's hands fling out, spilling rice on Syd and the floor. ‘We came inside! We had to. He spoiled everything.'

Their mother asks, ‘Where was the belt tied on Dorrie?'

It's the question on which everything hinges, including the indignation on Marigold's face, which sets stonily. ‘It was around her neck,' she admits. ‘But it wasn't tight! She was being a puppy! She had to have a leash. She wasn't choking —'

Dorrie makes a gagging sound, and Peter copies her, and Marigold rolls her eyes. ‘She
wasn't
choking. We were just playing. And it wasn't that old man's business. He shouldn't talk to us. He doesn't know us. I hate him. And I bet Avery hates him.'

‘He doesn't,' says Declan.

‘Avery loves everyone,' says Dorrie.

‘You're just mad because Mr Price wouldn't let you strangle Dorrie with Dad's belt,' says Syd.

‘No,' says Marigold, ‘I'm mad because he
doesn't
care about Avery, but he
does
care about Dorrie.'

‘Avery's mum should look after him,' says Dorrie. ‘Not the old coot.'

‘Eat your dinner and stop saying that,' says their mother.

Marigold spears a wedge of pineapple sullenly. ‘When can we put up the Christmas tree?' she asks. ‘Tonight? Tomorrow?'

The calendar has finally turned to its last page, an occasion of much excitement for the younger Kileys: the treasures on their wishlists suddenly seem within grasp. But, ‘Not yet,' says Elizabeth. ‘Wait a few more days.'

‘Ah! Why?'

‘It's too early for the tree.'

‘But it says Christmas on the calendar!'

‘No, Marigold.'

‘Why not? Why? Why? Why? Why?'

‘Marigold,' says Freya crisply, ‘Mum said no.'

Marigold slumps, lip jutting. ‘What are you getting from Santa?' Declan asks Dorrie.

Dorrie sits up straight and announces, ‘A crown.'

‘Like a queen,' explains Marigold tiredly. ‘I already told you: you can't have a crown, because you can't buy them in shops. You can only have something you can buy.'

‘There are crown shops,' says Dorrie.

‘You can only have a crown if you're a princess,' says Declan.

‘No,' says Dorrie. ‘I saw a lady with a crown, and she wasn't a princess.'

‘That's another fib,' says Marigold.

During this inane conversation Syd has been working steadily through his dinner, and now he folds his knife and fork. ‘Can I please leave the table?'

Normally he would hang about for leftovers, and certainly in the hope of dessert. They know there is neopolitan ice-cream in the freezer, the chocolate section gouged away, the strawberry likewise almost gone, only the vanilla remaining intact, a snowy wall standing in the centre of the vat. ‘Why?' asks their mother. ‘Where are you rushing off to?'

Syd pauses to frame it correctly. ‘I want to ride the BMX. I know it's a school night, I won't stay out late —'

‘No,' says Declan.

It's unexpected, and Syd frowns across the table. ‘Why not?'

Declan doesn't look up from his plate. ‘Don't go by yourself.'

‘Then come with me . . .'

‘I've got homework.'

Elizabeth is looking at Declan. ‘Why shouldn't he go there by himself?'

‘It's night-time,' says Dorrie. ‘Scary.'

Declan crinkles his nose as if he has unearthed something unidentifiable in his dinner. ‘He's just a bit strange, Mr Jenson.'

‘What? He is not!' says Freya.

‘Strange how?' asks Marigold. ‘Strange like an alien? Remember you said he was an alien, Freya?'

‘Shut up!' says Freya.

‘He's OK,' says Syd. ‘You've just got to keep away from him, that's all.' He smiles, and his fingers stroke the air like insect legs, and Declan snickers.

Elizabeth frowns down the table at her sons. ‘What are you talking about? Declan?'

‘Nothing.' Declan sits back grinning, although his cheeks are stained faintly pink. ‘He's all right. He just likes giving shoulder rubs. Patting your back, stuff like that.'

‘You gotta stay out of reach,' reiterates Syd, and his fingers paw the air, and Declan chortles again.

Freya is staring icily at her brothers. ‘Don't be mean. That's really mean. Mr Jenson is kind. He bought us ice-cream. Why do you have to be so horrible?'

‘We're not being horrible, it's just funny —'

‘I've talked to him lots of times, I've sat next to him, and he's never rubbed my shoulders or patted my back. I've never seen him do that to anyone.'

Declan looks at her, still smiling, and suddenly his face goes bright: ‘You saw him do it to Syd!'

‘
When
?'

‘At the barbeque! When we were leaving, when Syd wouldn't get out of the pool.'

The whole family looks at Freya, even Peter, who is licking rice off his palm. Freya shakes her head. ‘He helped Syd get dry!'

‘Yeah —'

‘We were going home. Everyone was waiting. He got Syd dry. He rubbed him with a towel. That's how you dry someone.' She impales her brother on a glare. ‘What's so bad about that?'

‘Syd's not a baby,' says Marigold. ‘He can dry himself.'

‘He'd been told ten times to get out of the pool. We couldn't wait for him all night!'

Declan considers his sister, then looks away and says, ‘Don't worry about it.'

‘We're just used to Dad.' Freya speaks darkly. ‘Mr Jenson isn't Dad. He likes everyone. He isn't nasty —'

‘Dad's not nasty!' yikes Dorrie.

‘— and you shouldn't say nasty things about him. So what if he pats you on the back? That's called
being nice
.'

Declan is not a boy for fighting lost causes, but, ‘It's still weird,' he says.

‘Alien,' says Marigold.

Freya wheels on her sister. ‘If you say that again I will smash you, Marigold!'

Elizabeth pushes her chair out and turns to the stove, and stirs the casserole more than it needs – as if, for a moment, she can't stop stirring it. ‘There's a bit of leftover,' she says. ‘Does anyone want some?'

‘I bags!' says Marigold.

To Syd, Declan shakes his head. ‘Don't go.'

Freya snarls, ‘Ignore him, Syd!'

But Syd, although he's childishly torn, has a businessman's instinct for erring on the side that is most beneficial to him, and stays resignedly in his chair.