The Idea of Perfection (27 page)

Sucking the marrow out of my bones! she cried.

She was almost shouting.

Out of the corner of her eye, Felicity saw something moving behind the window of Alfred Chang Superior Meats.

Fiona laughed, high and insistent, like the call of a bird. Felicity smiled, but in a small way. She would not want anyone to think she was really close friends with Fiona.

Yesterday I
counted,
Fiona began, and stopped to laugh again.

The laughing was making the parrot-earrings tremble and twitch. Her lips were stretched tight over her laugh, showing teeth and gums. She was laughing, of course, but if you took a photograph at that moment, you would have said she was in pain.

I
counted,
she repeated, the words broken up with the laughing, I counted how many times he said
Mum I want a biscuit.

She broke off and looked away to check where Darren was, and saw him over by the fence with a stick.

Darren, put that stick down please.

She turned back to Felicity.

Thirty-seven! she cried. No, put it
down!
Before I gave in.

Darren stared at her with his lip stuck out and banged the stick along the railing of the fence.

Darren, I said put it down please. No, Darren,
no!

Now Darren was holding the stick like a rifle and another child was approaching, unsteady on its feet, a big wad of nappy between its knees. It was Janet’s little boy, but Janet was not watching, over by the gate showing something in a magazine to Pat. Darren was shooting this child, who stood wavering, then put out a fat arm, a fat hand, to touch the end of the stick. Darren was crouching down with one eye closed, shooting him again and again while he smiled and reached and wavered.

Fiona, calling out
Darren!
No! let go of the stroller and ran towards him. She was not laughing now.

As she let go of the stroller, the weight of the shopping hanging behind pulled it over backwards, and the baby in the stroller went over too, still strapped in, on top of the shopping. It began to scream
Maaaaah maaaaaah.
Fiona, halfway to Darren, glanced back, but Janet’s little boy had wavered closer to Darren and Darren was jabbing the stick and making shooting noises. Janet’s little boy was about to lose an eye.

Felicity did not ever like to interfere with other people’s children. But Angela and Lois and all the others were looking now, and it seemed sensible to pick up the stroller. With the shopping hanging off the back, and the roaring baby, it was very heavy, but she got it upright. She felt herself grimacing with the effort, and looking awkward, straining to lift the stroller.

Over at the fence, Fiona was almost within reach of Darren, but Darren shot her a grinning look, not a nice look at all, and jumped around, putting Janet’s little boy between himself and his mother. The end of the stick brushed against Janet’s little boy’s face. He recoiled, staggered back with his hand to his face, lost balance, fell heavily on his bottom. The mouth squared, wet and red. He started to scream.

Darren was pointing the stick at his mother now and she grabbed the end of it and pulled. He leaned back against the pull, she gave a tug and then he had fallen over backwards and hit his head against the fence. Lying sprawled on his back, he roared out of a big gaping mouth.

Janet had rushed over now and snatched up her child, still screaming. She was fingering his face, peering.
Where does it hurt, sweetie?
There was hair everywhere, and tears.

The bag of oranges on the back of the stroller had burst in the fall. The baby in the stroller was still screaming in high broken jabs of noise, twisting against the straps, kicking, arching its back as if in agony. People were picking up oranges and giving them to Felicity, but there was nothing to put them in so oranges were spilling out of her arms.

Then Leith, with her little girl beside her and the baby on her hip, gave her a plastic bag out of her hold-all, and Lois came over to help. Felicity had to keep holding the stroller with her hip so the weight of the rest of the shopping would not pull it over again, and try to get the oranges out of her arms into the bag Leith was holding. She knew she must be looking very awkward but she tried to keep her face smooth and not let her bottom stick out as she bent over the stroller.

Now classes were out. Big children were everywhere, pushing. It was the first thing they learned when they got to school, how to stick their elbows out and barge. Their back-packs bumped around, knocking little ones over.

There was William, over on the steps, looking round, not seeing her in the crush. He humped his backpack on and pushed towards the gate. He was with, but not quite
with,
some of the boys who said
gunna.
She worked her way around a group of little girls to try to intercept him.
William!
she called,
Oh William!
She was quite close, but he did not hear. He was actually out the gate, setting off along the footpath with the others, when she caught up with him.

Darling,
she cried, and put her arm around his shoulders. He shrugged it off. But just for that moment, it would have made a lovely photo, if anyone had happened to be nearby with a camera. She glanced over at Alfred Chang Superior Meats and there he was, Alfred Chang himself, standing in his doorway, definitely looking towards her. He probably waited all day for the chance of this glimpse of her.
Darling,
she said again, but William had already moved away, and she was only saying it into the air.

DOUGLAS HAD BEEN in Karakarook a week now, but he was always the only one at breakfast. The woman did not even have to ask any more, but just nodded when he came in to the Dining Room and went away to order his Set Breakfast.

The hinges of the swing door creaked and thumped now and she came out balancing the toast-rack on the edge of the plate, the cup and saucer in the other hand.

There you go, love, she said, and whipped out the local paper from under her arm and spread it open next to the plate.

Seen this?

BENT BRIDGE TO GO, the headline blared, and there was a full-colour picture of the bridge, and next to it the sketch they had done at Head Office, to show what the new bridge would look like. Here in the paper it was called an
artist’s impression,
but it had only been Bob Partridge up on the third floor. Under the photo of the old bridge was a subheading :
Danger to Public, Says Engineer.

He heard himself blurt
No!
It was like a shout in the quiet room. He wanted to turn the paper face down but the woman was looking over his shoulder.

Should have gone years ago, she said. See, the Main Roads pays for the bridge, but the Shire cops the maintenance.

He nodded. He knew that, about the Shire being responsible for the maintenance, but it seemed polite to make a little
hm?
and nod.

At least there was no photo of him.

They’ve been a terrible nuisance, the greenies, she said. Troublemakers, the lot of them.

He got to work on the Set Breakfast, bolting down the eggs, slicing hard across the bacon, slurping at the tea. The toast was embarrassing, the way it exploded into crumbs when you tried to butter it, and the watery grilled half-tomato kept sliding off his fork.

Yes, he said, for something to say, but was sorry then, because it sounded as though he agreed with her.

He did agree, they were troublemakers. But it was not as simple as all that. Sometimes, trouble needed to be made.

He had often found there was a grey area between agreeing and disagreeing, as in this case.

The swinging doors thumped again and the publican came out with a tray of glasses that he put down on a table with a clash, and came over to stand beside the woman.

Greenies not giving you any bother?

Um, he said, and swallowed a mouthful of bacon.

About the bridge, the publican said loudly, as if Douglas was deaf. They giving you any bother at all?

Glad to see the back of it, the woman said.

Danger to life and limb, the publican said.

The school bus and that, the kiddies, the woman said.

Standing in the way of progress, the publican said, and like a snake striking, Eh?

Now they were both watching Douglas. His mouth tried out various words. There was
yes.
That was not quite right. There was
no.
That was not quite right, either.

There were times when life seemed to be one big grey area.

The woman finally took pity on him.

You’d agree with that, she said kindly. Being a professional.

She turned to the publican.

He’d agree with that.

Douglas got the last mouthful of toast and egg down and slid the knife and fork together. The woman reached in straight away and took the plate.

That’s right, she said, as if he had spoken. We’re right behind you, love. One hundred per cent.

It seemed to take a long time to get himself out of the Dining Room and away from the two faces watching him. He felt them looking at the enormous size of his ears, their blazing heat, their flapping and blushing stupidity. The back of his neck felt exposed, blushing like his ears as he progressed in a zigzag way through the thicket of tables and chairs.

Something about being watched was making his bottom move in a strange way, and thinking about it was making it worse.

Out on the street the air was ruthlessly clear and he seemed to be the centre of Karakarook’s attention. Two women glanced at him as he crossed the road. A man in overalls stopped opening his car door to have a good look. A truck passed and someone stared at him out the window.

He did not think he was imagining it. Undistinguished invisible Douglas Cheeseman was suddenly conspicuous in the hard glare of Parnassus Road.
Danger to Public, Says Engineer.

It was fame, of a kind. But like that other kind of fame he was reluctantly familiar with, it was unwanted.

HARLEY COULD ALREADY see how you would stop finding the Cobwebbe Crafte Shoppe funny. This morning PEACE ON EAR seemed quite normal.

The dog walked beside her, glancing up from time to time, its tail brushing against her leg, a stick in its mouth. It seemed to enjoy carrying a stick around. When a dusty truck drove by with a brown dog in the tray, running from side to side and barking, the dog beside her looked, stopped, pricked up its ears. She could see it was trying to decide whether to drop the stick so it could bark too.

It was quite funny, really, but she had no intention of laughing.

The dog had not packed its little suitcase and gone home. Nor did it seem about to. It drank the water she gave it
just this once
every day, and ate the
just this last time
can of Pal.

Today was the day she was going to be decisive about it. Somewhere in Karakarook was someone who would claim it, and this morning she would find that someone, and walk away without a dog.

Parnassus Road had a flattened look under the huge pale country sky. Nothing interrupted the blank white light that poured down everywhere. The sun was already hot, and even at this hour the shadows were very black and crisp, as if cut out of black paper and laid on the ground. The parapet of the butcher’s shop cast a shadow that looked like a badly cut slice of bread, wider at one end than the other, and the Cobwebbe Crafte Shoppe laid a big blocky shadow across the footpath.

A dusty car drove past on the road and slowed. Someone invisible behind the windscreen stuck a hand out and waved, and she waved back.

She was getting used to the way people did that, out here in the bush, and had finally learned how to wave back before it was too late. She liked the way she was getting to know who they were from their cars, and the way they knew who she was from hers. That was how you did it here: you did not wait to recognise people, you assumed you knew them, and you assumed that they knew all about you, because they all did.

She liked the way she knew the people she met down on Parnassus Road when she did her shopping. The trip became a series of conversations under the awnings. They were like ants, stopping to exchange a bit of information between their feelers before they went on.

Bert Cutcliffe had invited her down to the school and in a hot hall filled with the sharp metallic smell of many children - their feet, the bananas in their bags - she showed them Mrs Trimm’s teacosy in the shape of an echidna, and the ancient rotary egg-beater, and the doily that said KEEP THE HOME FIRES BURNING. She did not know the children, but they knew her now, and sang out
Hi Miss Savage!
when they saw her.

It was a new feeling, like being without the layer of your shell that was called
privacy.
She would have said it would be claustrophobic, to have everyone know you, but it did not seem to be like that.

The way no one knew you in the city, the way everyone
respected your privacy,
had always seemed safe. Now it was looking a little bleak.

Children were streaming towards the school in a last-minute flurry. Boys ran towards her with their packs bumping around on their backs, skirting around her and the dog.

Sucked in! one yelled at the other.

Get stuffed!

They were like her boys had been at that age, big and rough. It was just more proof of her
dangerous streak,
not having let them get a dog. She could see that now.

The youngest had made the biggest fuss. He had seemed hardly to notice when his father was not there any more.
Too young to take it in,
people said. But the thing about the dog had become an obsession. He had done endless drawings of dogs and left them around the house for her to find, had got books about dogs out of the library, had thought up dozens of dog names. Then he had started the tantrums. He had got into a kind of habit of hurling himself on the floor when things went wrong, and screaming and screaming until he more or less blacked out and could be put to bed.