We publish quality short stories, poetry, extracts from forthcoming novels, and articles and essays on topics of social, environmental and cultural significance.ISSUE NO. 118
Spring 2009
FICTION
The Business
The traffic is so slow Ellie crosses without waiting for the lights. A car toots anyway, reminding her she shouldn’t be there. If she was with her friend Pepper, she might have swung round and given him the finger. But alone, in borrowed heels and a skirt that keeps moving around on her slim frame, she doesn’t look back. She wishes now that she’d risked grabbing her brother’s iPod, but it was wedged so hard under his pillow she might have woken him, and that would have ended in a punch or two.
She sees the train pulling in on the other side, and tries to rush, but her feet are already protesting. She watches the surge of people move forward, crowd in and disappear. The train sounds its horn and leaves again.
‘Hey, El...’
Ellie is almost bowled over by an arm suddenly linking through hers. She knows who it is by the smell of blueberry bubblegum and cheap perfume.
‘Hey, Pep...’
‘Nice skirt.’
Pepper smiles when she says this. They both know it’s on loan. And they both know Ellie’s mum only lent it with certain conditions.
‘Thought you were starting at eight.’
Pepper shrugs and grins again. She pulls out a packet of cigarettes and taps one into her mouth.
‘Told them I had a doctor’s appointment.’
Ellie knows what this means. And she says nothing, just grips her friend’s arm tighter, loving that she’s waited for her, and wishing in a way she was alone. Now she has no time to clear her head. No time to think
of smart things to say.
‘Saw Lucas on the bus, all suited up... wanker.’
The train pulls up before Ellie can respond. She watches Pepper stub her cigarette across the sole of her shoe, and pocket the unsmoked half for later.
They crouch together in the doorway. Even out of uniform, they fill the empty spaces, not quite ready to compete for a real seat. Ellie’s careful not to trail her skirt along the dusty floor. She tucks it up under her, arms securing the stiff black fabric. Pepper starts talking again. Swearing mostly. Ellie knows she’s just mouthing off, trying to shock, but today she doesn’t care. It’s almost reassuring listening to her friend’s angry rave. Pepper is the only person she knows who can cover ten subjects in under a minute.
new phone rings. Others clutch pockets, checking, disappointed when they realise it’s the teenager who has a call.
‘Hi, dad.’
‘Hello, kiddo. Just wanted to wish you luck.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Tell Thommo to take good care of you.’
‘Yeah, all right.’
‘If you need anything...’
And then a tunnel wipes him. Ellie snaps her phone shut, sliding her fingers tapping across the hard silver case, still impressed by her dad’s latest present.
‘Ya dad?’
‘Yeah...’
‘Nice he called.’
Ellie says nothing. It always rocks her when he calls. It’s like the feeling she sometimes has with her boyfriend. She just doesn’t expect them to remember things, and when they do it makes her shaky. And beholden. Now she wants to call him back, reassure him she didn’t cut him off, it was just bad reception. But she can’t. Not on a train with Pepper watching. Instead she drops down hard on the train floor, not wanting to care that her black skirt will be covered in other people’s dirt.
Pepper starts telling her about some guy she met at her cousin’s birthday. There’s always some guy. As they pull into Richmond, Pepper kisses Ellie on the cheek.
‘Call me later?’ she says with more desperation than Ellie’s ever heard.
‘Yeah... course.’
Ellie watches Pepper push her way to the front, her fear lost again as she pulls out her cigarettes and disappears into the crowd. There are empty seats everywhere now, but Ellie stays on the floor. She’s running sentences in her head. Practising being somebody. Not this Ellie Jackson with a ham sandwich and a browning apple. But a girl in a window seat with dyed hair and clothes that cost money. And brave enough to front strangers.
Ellie’s phone chirps again.
‘Hello?’
‘Ellie, it’s Thompson.’
‘Oh hi...’
‘You far away?’
‘No... just on the train... sorry... I thought... they said nine.’
‘No, it’s fine. But things have changed. We’re shooting today so you may as well come straight to the studio.’
‘Oh... okay... where...’
‘Same street as us, but on the corner... big red block, you won’t miss it.’
This time, Ellie is left without a goodbye. She runs the conversation over, trying to remember how she sounded. Nervous probably. She always does with her dad’s friends. They’re not like fathers. Even grey-haired and lined, they look like men who still prowl. Men who hunt. Once she was even mistaken for her dad’s girlfriend, by some whippet-like woman from his office. That was the last time Ellie dropped in to see him. Now she just waits for him to phone.
‘What are you doing for work experience, kiddo?’
‘I don’t know dad...’
‘I could make a few calls.’
‘Pep and I thought we might just work at Maccas... make a bit of money... you know...’
He just laughed and pulled out his wallet.
‘How much, El? How much do you need?’
Pepper told her she was mad not taking his money. She is always coming to school with new things. Trinkets she calls them. There is even talk of a car. If she finishes school, which Ellie doubts. School isn’t built for Pepper. There are too many fences.
Ellie waits for others to leave before she pushes through the doors, dusting her skirt. Her legs ache to be in their old jeans. Her feet
long to be able to run. Instead she hobbles forward, wondering what
her dad would make of her mum’s choice of outfit.
Leaning against the metal rail, Ellie waits for a tram to pull up. Students cluster around her, all in black. Piercings dot their faces like stations on a map. Ellie wants to tell them she’s on their side. But she’s wearing the clothes of the enemy. In heels and buttons, collars and stockings, she’s just a blur in their sights.
Sometimes she rides this tram with her dad sitting opposite, him reading the paper and her just scanning the words between the folds, trying to make a story from his cast-offs. He never sits alongside her anymore. Never risks that brushing of legs.
Ellie’s phone beeps twice and she pulls it out, knowing without looking that it will be Pepper.
‘L, should c the manager. So Hot.’
For the first time today, Ellie laughs genuinely. Pepper can make anywhere a playground for flirtation, even deep frying potatoes in sweaty polyester pants. She is the only thing her parents agree on. It’s the blue eye-shadow and hint of cleavage. It’s the swear words and lack of ambition. Girls like her are the reason they wanted Ellie at a private school.
swings down from the tram, and waits until the cars stop. Turning into Park Street, she starts smoothing down everything. Her heels horse-tap on the footpath. She steps over crusted old vomit, strangely reassured that somebody else has felt sick in the same place. At the corner she faces the studio, and the tower poking proudly into the sky. She breathes her last free breath, and steps inside.
A woman stares at Ellie’s chin, her eyes not bothering to rise all the way up.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Um, yes... I’m here to see Thompson Walker.’
‘And you are?’
‘Oh, Ellie... Jackson.’
The receptionist’s clicking nails skip across the phone.
‘Jaqs, it’s Jen... there’s someone here to see Thompson.’
Ellie can’t hear what the other end is saying but it’s enough to spark a little laugh from the receptionist’s mouth. She hangs up and the phone starts ringing almost immediately. The woman looks at Ellie with that too busy for you face.
‘Jaqs will be right down.’
Ellie starts to say thanks but the woman has already moved on. Dismissed, Ellie perches on the edge of the cream leather couch, feeling like a warm prop in a room that is waiting. She looks around, trying to find something to calm away the blush and the flutter growing inside her. But all she can find is a precarious stack of magazines that don’t want to be read.
‘Ellie.’
The girl is waiting on the carpet, forcing Ellie to be the one who moves.
‘I’m Jaqs. Thompson’s PA. We’re shooting a cereal ad today.’
‘Great, I love cereal.’
Pepper would laugh at that. Her brother would look at her like she’s an idiot, but still he’d smile. Jaqs has already moved on.
‘How come you’re here? We don’t do work experience.’
‘My dad’s a friend of Thompson’s.’
‘Oh, right. Well, you’re lucky. I did work experience at a paint factory.’
Then she looks at Ellie like it’s all her fault.
Jaqs opens the door and Ellie bumps into her, expecting to go through first. They squash into the doorway, their skin touching in an uncomfortably intimate mistake. Ellie backs out quickly and bangs into someone behind her. ‘Sorry.’ ‘It’s fine. I’ve got another foot.’
The man smiles down at Ellie. She tries to gesture for him to go first but he shakes his head.
‘Please, after you.’
Ellie steps through the door and feels she’s shrunk as she entered. She looks around for her guide, but Jaqs has already disappeared, like an Alice in Wonderland.
‘Are you lost?’
‘A little. I’m on work experience.’
‘Ah... I see. I’m Mark.’
He holds out his hand. Ellie takes it, feeling the softness of his palm, unlike the lined fingers her dad held out to her when they practised.
‘I’m Ellie.’
‘Well, Ellie, I can show you around if you like.’
She smiles at him, hopeful at last that this will not be a day of being in somebody’s way. But before she can follow him into the maze of cubicles, Jaqs reappears, irritated for so many reasons at Ellie’s new alliance, but mostly because this tall, well-dressed man knows the work experience girl’s name and has never bothered to ask hers. And it’s for this, that she
grabs Ellie’s arm almost roughly, pinching her skin.
‘You’re supposed to be following me.’
‘Oh... sorry... I thought...’
‘Thompson’s waiting.’
‘Oh... okay.’
Frightened of doing the wrong thing, Ellie falls in line, following the speed of her guide as they zip back and forth around desks and edges, through doors, and past a rainbow of faces, some smiling, others not. Jaqs doesn’t slow until she reaches the big heavy reinforced doors. Then she points up to the beaming red light overhead.
‘See how it says “filming”? Do not enter when the light’s on. Okay?’
Ellie nods. She’s still trying to remember the path they cut through the office, just in case she has to go back alone. Jaqs checks her watch.
‘Come on.’
They’re off again. But this time she’s led into the small kitchen.
‘The urn’s hot if the light’s on. The kettle doesn’t work. The coffee machine is too hard, so just make a plunger. I’m assuming you know how to do that. Here’s the list.’
She hands Ellie a screwed-up scrap of paper.
‘I’ll come back later.’
leaves Ellie wanting to faint. All her mum ever drinks is a tea bag with a dash of milk, and even then she’s not fussy. It feels worse than the day her parents told her they were splitting up. At least then her brother was with her. She takes out her phone, needing to talk to her friend, desperate as a junkie. ‘Hi again.’
Ellie looks up, dropping her phone. She scrabbles down to pick it up. Mark walks into the kitchen, smiling. He rattles the coffee maker.
‘Do you know how to work this thing?’
Ellie laughs. Too loudly.
‘I don’t even know how to turn it on.’
‘That makes two of us.’
He starts opening cupboards. Ellie watches. Her phone rings. It’s Pepper. She turns it off, hoping she won’t be worried.
‘You can answer it.’
‘Nah, it’s okay...’
‘Biscuit?’
He’s holding out the largest box of the cheapest biscuits Ellie has ever seen. She almost takes one, just because he’s offering. He looks at her and snaps the box shut. Ellie worries for a second she’s offended him. He says nothing as he slides it back into the cupboard, and she fears that he’ll leave. Instead he turns back, and holds up a shining packet of chocolate biscuits.
‘These are the executive stash. But I’m an executive, so it’s okay.’
Something about watching him fumble with the top makes Ellie lean over and take them from his hands. She tears the packet with her teeth, immediately regretting her boldness, but he says nothing, just watches her, with that slow way some men have.
Ellie watches as he places the open packet of biscuits on the bench. He flicks the kettle, and there’s a low groan. Like it hasn’t been filled for weeks. He gathers things around him. Then he picks up a box of tea bags and holds them out to her.
‘Tea bags. Plunger. Sugar. Scalpel.’
Ellie laughs as she grabs the instruments.
‘Thanks, nurse.’
The kettle whistles behind them and turns itself off.
He helps her slowly tick off order after order on her long list. When they finish, Ellie pours herself a cup. She doesn’t drink coffee, but decides to learn, desperately wanting something warm to hold, something that seems adult. He ferrets in the fridge for a soft drink, and Ellie watches, jealously, as he finds himself a tiny can of lemonade. It’s like the one she drank on the plane when she went on holidays with her dad.
Mark closes the door. The kitchen is even smaller now. ‘Do you mind? Sometimes when they’re filming it’s better not to
have any noise.’
Ellie nods. She has so many questions but they all seem so young. She’s trying to think of something older to say, when he bumps against her, spilling her coffee so it floods the front of her shirt.
‘Shit.’
‘God, I’m sorry... you okay?’
And before Ellie knows what’s happening, he’s grabbed a cloth and is rubbing at the stain. He’s even closer now, and she tries to step back but the fridge is behind her, trapping her in place. He smiles down at her as he holds her shirt in his fingers.
‘You’ve got a great smile, Ellie.’
‘Thanks.’
Her heart stops. She actually feels it. There’s no air going in, because his mouth is on hers, his tongue pushing its way inside. She can taste the lemonade. His hands close around her waist. She shuts her eyes and wills it to be over.
There’s a bang on the door. A voice is yelling.
‘Ellie.’
Mark jumps away. She still can’t open her eyes. Doesn’t see him grab two biscuits and his can of drink, and fiddle with the door. She doesn’t hear Jaqs barge in with a rude word or two, wanting her long black. She doesn’t see Mark introduce himself, making Jaqs’s face beam, and then slip out, disappearing into the studio. She doesn’t see Thompson walk in, walk over and kiss her on the cheek, asking about her dad. She doesn’t hear her phone ring, or the beeping message left.
Her teeth are chattering. Her shirt coffee-wet and clinging. Her mouth is still full of him. Her face still blushing. And then she’s alone again. And she wants to cry, but instead she picks up the sponge from the sink and starts to rub the cotton of her shirt, worried about what her mum will say when she goes home.
When someone comes to find her for lunch, she is still cleaning. They lead her out into the studio, a cavernous room of lights and rigs and cameras and people. All eating and talking and getting along.
Lunch passes around her. There are animals and cereal bowls and small children running around. There is pasta, fillet steak and cheesecake but all Ellie sees is his mouth. Her dad phones. Pepper phones. Her mum phones. Pepper phones. She talks to no one.
When she finally looks up after staring at a box of empty cereal for most of the break, he’s there.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you were Graham’s daughter?’
Ellie says nothing.
‘You should have told me.’
Her phone rings again. To climb out of the moment, Ellie answers it.
‘Hello, kiddo.’
‘Hi, dad.’
Ellie looks up, suddenly emboldened by her father’s voice.
‘How’s it going?’
‘Okay...’
‘Just okay? Aren’t they looking after you?’
She stares at his frozen eyes, making a quick decision.
‘Mark’s been showing me around. Do you know Mark?’
She smiles up at him, her mouth more adult now.
‘Sorry, Mark, what was your last name?’
He mumbles.
‘Hang on, dad, I’ll put him on.’
She holds up her phone and, in a voice she hasn’t heard before, tells him what he dreads.
‘Dad would like to talk to you.’
They stay like that for a second or two, both knowing he has no choice. And when his big hand finally swoops down and snatches the phone away, Ellie stands. She can see the dandruff on his shoulders. The wedding ring cutting into his finger. She can see his cheeks burning with fear, as she pushes past him, walking away, hoping the catering van is still serving lunch.
NOVA WEETMAN is the writer of films Ripples and Mr Wasinski’s Song, for which she received an AWGIE nomination for best short screenplay. Her prose has appeared in Overland Express and the Cardigan Press anthology, Normal Service Will Resume. She is currently working in children’s television.
Restrictions
How often does she wash those knickers? Always on the line, an array. Like bunting. Red or black, drip drip dripping on the Hills hoist. Half the Murray must go into cleaning those smalls.
She comes out in a bathrobe to snatch jeans, T-shirt and, yes, a red pair. Ping goes a peg. I’m on the mound watering the lawn around the pool. Only way I can see over the fence. A dribble seeping from the hose. No pressure, tank almost empty. Lawn sparse, straw-coloured. Yet when I peer into her yard there’s a swathe of emerald. Always greener, they say.
I shout a greeting. Big open-faced welcome. Something judders behind my ribs as she approaches. Smiles: a splay-fingered wave. The thing I notice is her baggy fingerprints. Puckered skin. She’s been wallowing in a big, luxurious tub. For a long time.
Wipe my brow. ‘Another scorcher. Glad I’m not a farmer.’ She squints up into the polished sky.
This is the moment I’ve been rehearsing. Replaying and editing. Almost can’t spit it out. Blocked gullet. The words emerge quivering and unnatural.
‘Like to cool down in the pool? Quick dip?’
I was a spotty high school kid when my folks put the pool in. A sure-fire chick magnet; great way to get girls to your house. Seasonal, sure, and you had to go to pains not to invite other blokes or you often ended up watching a teen romance instead of starring in one. Friends and neighbours clamoured to be invited. That’s all changed now. These days the neighbours fire a disdainful glance. You’re scorned, pillager of a precious resource. What they don’t understand is that once the water’s in there you rarely have to top it up. And I don’t have long lingering baths like somebody I know.
I’m preparing a polite acknowledgement to her refusal when she says: ‘Sure. Not right now: lunch appointment. How about this evening?’
Have trouble controlling my pace as I wander oh-so-nonchalantly back inside. Light-headed: I seem to be oscillating. Something draws me to the fridge and I yank open the door, lifting the lid on the small white box on the top shelf. Two morsels of baklava snuggle against each other. They’ve nestled there so long they’ve wept syrup all around. You’d have to prize them apart. Sweet waft. I resist the urge to venture a fingertip, touch the surface, feel the resistance as I pull away to offer the stickiness to the tip of my tongue. A sensation like dismay ripples through me. I’ve been storing this treat – and the halva before that, and the toffee before that – as a salve. You see, I’d been expecting her to deny my request and I’ve harboured these titbits as consolation. Now, in my triumph, I regard the gooey lumps with a moue of disappointment. Absurdly, there’s a flash of resentment. It’s her fault I can’t tuck in. Shake my head, wet dog, seized by laughter. Let joy rush back in.
The day drools around me. I urge time to skip faster. Clean the bathroom, tidy the bedroom. Tentative nausea as I tuck in the stiff, clean sheets. Buy a bottle of something nice. To defy the clock I pull weeds in the frontage. Survey the crackling leaves and wilting stalks with a mournful sigh. Pride and joy of my parents: they must be restless in their graves.
Next door’s an eruption of colour. Dazzling petals, strong stems. Bobbing blooms and swaying grass. A blaze of chlorophyll. Happy drone of bees, refugees from my sorry patch. How does she manage it? No water tank: I never see her lunking buckets of grey slurry. And her car always sparkling, whereas mine’s encrusted with grime. Not to mention those undergarments. How many pairs does she go through in a day? There’s no way she’s obeying the restrictions. Hate to have her water bill.
Mutter a prayer for the farmers. How could you grow anything beneath this remorseless blue, hard as quartz? The unforgiving frustration. Screws tightening; marriages splintering. Maybe they’re having to move back to their parents’ homes too. The sense of defeat as they reclaim their old bedrooms, once bright with Duran Duran posters. Watching their parents shrink and drop off the twig. The loneliness of inheritance.
Hear my own grunt as I tug at another dead bush. I resent the animal gutturalness of it. The shrub wrenches free, withered roots flicking soil. Sure enough, as I roll on my bum, legs splayed, a jogger thunders past. Inscrutable sunglasses angle in my direction. Harsh bestial breath; iPod spitting secrets into his ear. My parents’ ghosts glower and tut. I want to tell them I’m not up to the job. I’m turning brown and brittle too.
Ready too early, perched nervously on the couch. Feels like she’s late even though she never set a time. Tiny plates of nibbles on the coffee table look somehow sad. Wilted like the garden. Just when I’m convinced she’s not showing there’s a rapping that launches me to my feet. I clump up the hallway too hurriedly, a big winged thing fluttering in my chest. Pull myself up short. There’s her silhouette, pixellated by the frosted glass like a criminal on the telly. She knocks again.
Clammy film coats my flesh. A droplet cascades from my armpit, tracing a broken trail down my flank. Horrified, I realise I can smell myself. Those one-minute showers don’t work; they’re not enough to soak the odour away. And my clothes, rolling and thunking in a pathetic puddle in the washing machine. They never freshen up. I bet her garments swoosh and splash, knickers swirling and dancing, lifted on sudsy tsunamis. And even though I flushed the toilet ages ago you can still detect the sharp tang of mellowing yellow stinking out the house.
The rapping again. Sharper. Staccato reports of irritation. I’m a statue, arm extended to the door knob. She’s there, tantalising, centimetres away. I sense her breathing; see she’s holding a bottle. Wonder if the straps of her bikini are sneaking out of her neckline, stretched over her collarbone. Feel my face melting, drawing down with frustration and anxiety. Willing myself to open the door.
Open the fucking door.
She disintegrates pixel by pixel. I hear the brisk, annoyed clack of her heels.
Maintain my pose, poised for a handshake. Not even blinking. Begin to sway. Then I snap into a sudden turn and break for the kitchen. Wrench open the fridge door and remove the white box. Sugary syrup gums my fingertips.
COLIN VARNEY has scripted for a voiceless bear (Here’s Humphrey) and a bodiless voice (Mulligrubs). His short fiction has appeared in Wet Ink, Famous Reporter and the anthology Small City Tales of Strangeness and Beauty. He has recently swapped the reluctantly changing skies of Adelaide for the magnificently mutable weather of Hobart.
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